CHAPTER TEN
Motel Midway has been around as long as the town it’s named after. Located a block from the beach in a faded pink one-story building, the motel has fifteen rooms, all with doors opening to the parking lot. The owner lives next door. Very Norman Bates.
A few cars and bicycles pass by on Highway A1A, but the motel is quiet even though the parking lot is nearly full. No surprise. Most people who stay in budget hotels such as this walk to the beach and spend most of the day there.
It’s obvious right away why the owner didn’t answer the phone. The office is empty and locked. For all I know, the owner could be at his house having a chat with his mummified mum. I’m here to talk to Stuart Bigelow, the Wilmington News reporter, about the country singer who committed suicide.
When Bigelow didn’t return either my voicemail or email, I called his newspaper and found out he’s staying in Midway Beach while he covers the Black Widow story. In one of Motel Midway’s fifteen rooms, to be exact. But which one?
I lean my bike against the building and get ready to knock on doors.
Before I can lift my knuckles, I notice one of the doors in the middle of the building is ajar. Almost immediately, a dark-haired guy backs out of the room toward the parking lot, his hand covering his mouth. It’s Max, who I haven’t seen since yesterday when he drove me home in secretive silence from the coastal forest.
“Hey,” I call as I walk toward him, dimly noticing his white pickup isn’t in the lot. I don’t even try to keep my irritation under wraps. “Thanks for telling me you were coming to see Bigelow, too.”
Max is still moving backward. Staggering backward. Like an actor in a horror movie who’s seen something he really wished he hadn’t. Like maybe a girl in the shower who’s been slashed to death by a man dressed like a woman.
“What is it?” I rush toward Max, stopping just shy of him. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Stuart Bigelow,” he chokes out.
I run toward the open motel room door.
“Don’t go in there!” Max shouts.
It’s too late. The room is utilitarian with plain brown furniture arranged on a worn tile floor. Cold air blows from a noisy window air conditioning unit that’s steps away from a double bed soaked in blood.
Lying on top of the mattress is a man with a hole in his jugular. His head is turned to the side with his tongue hanging from one side of his open mouth. His eyes are frozen open in what looks like terror.
His face is waxy in death, but the man is Stuart Bigelow.
Stopping myself from fleeing, I take one step, two, three toward the bed. I step in something wet. Not blood, but spilled coffee from an overturned mug. Bigelow’s hand is wrapped around something. It’s a bloody ballpoint pen.
My stomach heaves. If I’d eaten anything this morning, it would be all over the floor. Before I can move, strong hands close over my shoulders and turn me away from the bed.
“I told you not to come in here,” Max says near my ear.
I let Max lead me into the parking lot where I suck in the warm outdoor air, welcome after the chill of the room.
“Let’s get out of here.” Max retrieves my bicycle and wheels it toward me before it dawns on me what he’s suggesting.
“We can’t leave. We need to call 9-1-1!”
“Not a good idea.” He walks past me with the bicycle toward the sidewalk.
I hurry to catch up. “A man is dead, Max. We can’t do nothing.”
When he ignores me, I get out my cell phone. He snatches it before I can punch in a single number. “Hey, what gives?”
“Nothing we do will bring Bigelow back to life.”
“I know that, but we might be able to help the police figure out what happened to him.”
“They’ll figure out on their own that somebody stabbed him in the jugular with a pen,” he says. “We don’t know anything else.”
“We can at least make sure nobody else stumbles across the body.” My voice rises and trembles. “Do you want a maid to see that?”
Max’s jaw tenses, like he’s gritting his teeth. “Okay, we’ll call. But not from your cell or mine. I think I saw a pay phone in the next block.”
He’s right even though, like Midway Beach, the pay phone is in danger of extinction. After reporting a body at the Midway Motel, Max hangs up and starts down the sidewalk toward where his pickup is parked, still rolling my bike. I’m torn between following him and returning to the motel to wait for the authorities. I still haven’t decided what to do once he’d done loading my bike into the bed of his pickup.
“Are you coming?” Max calls. “Or are you gonna stand there and let your name wind up in the newspaper where the killer can see it? Bigelow didn’t stab himself.”
“How do you know that?”
“Did you see the blood at his temple and the laptop on the floor? I think someone hit him with the laptop before they stabbed him.”
“That doesn’t sound premeditated.”
“You’re willing to take a chance the killer didn’t really mean it?”
Max’s suggestion to flee the scene of the crime sounds like the way to go. Although talk about paranoid. This goes way beyond most of my mom’s delusions.
“Do you honestly believe the killer would come after us?” I ask when the pickup is in motion. “That seems crazy.”
Max keeps his eyes straight ahead on the road while he drives under the speed limit. “Crazy stuff is happening in Midway Beach, and we’re in the middle of it.”
“But it doesn’t make sense.” I try to concentrate over the scream of an approaching police siren and the residual horror of finding the body. “Bigelow was covering the Black Widow story. We having nothing to do with that.”
“We found Constance Hightower’s body,” Max counters.
“By chance. Anybody walking on the beach that night could have found the body.”
“Then why did you come to the hotel to see Bigelow?”
“A lark.” A squad car speeds by traveling in the opposite direction, toward the motel. You’ve gotta hand it to the Midway Beach police. Their response time is excellent. “I was going to ask Bigelow about Cam Stokes.”
“Why?”
“To try to figure out why we were taken to the same field where Stokes committed suicide.” Briefly I share what I learned about the late country singer. “Your turn. Why were you at the motel?”
“Same as you. To find out what Bigelow knew about Cam Stokes.” Max doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Nice try, but I don’t buy it. You didn’t know Bigelow covered the suicide until I told you just now.”
Max keeps one hand on the steering wheel and rubs the back of his neck with the other. “Okay, you got me. The real reason was to check out a rumor that nobody saw the Black Widow’s body being moved.”
“Sure they did. Bigelow’s source witnessed it.”
“I heard he made up the source, that he wasn’t above stretching the truth if it resulted in a better story.”
“You mean, a more dishonest story.”
“Not really. Somebody moved the body after she died.” Max sounds matter of fact, like we’re discussing the weather. “Bigelow just didn’t know who it was. Until maybe today.”
“Whoa. Are you saying the Black Widow’s killer stabbed Bigelow with that pen?”
“Hear me out,” he says slowly. “Let’s say the killer didn’t think anybody saw him dump the body until he read that newspaper story. He could have tried to get the name of the witness out of Bigelow. Except if Bigelow made up the witness, he didn’t have a name to give. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
None of this makes sense, including the way Max seems more interested in what happened to the Black Widow than in what happened to us. Every time we make progress on our own cases, it seems we get sidetracked by some new, unrelated drama.
“Not really. How could the killer convince Bigelow to give up the name of the witness if he didn’t have a weapon? The pen and the laptop don’t cou
nt. They were probably already in the room.”
Max doesn’t have an explanation for that, but with work starting in thirty minutes, neither of us has time to come up with one. Tuesday’s usually my day off, but I offered to work an extra shift to avoid an evening of hearing how I should have visited my stepfather. At the carnival, Stuart Bigelow’s murder is all anyone can talk about.
“Maia told me Bigelow was strangled with a black bra,” Becky says breathlessly while we’re both on break. We’re sitting on a bench holding giant cups of melting, flavored ice chips while tourists stream by. “Do you think the Black Widow came back from the dead for revenge? Like Freddy Krueger?”
“Yeah, Becks. I think the Black Widow’s just like Freddy Krueger.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.” If I tell Becky there was no black bra, she’ll ask how I know that. I sip some brain-freezing strawberry slush through my straw while I think about how to respond. “Why would Constance want to get revenge on Stuart Bigelow?”
“Hello? She’s evil.”
“It’s more likely the killer came to the hotel to try to get Bigelow to give up the name of his source and things went south from there.”
“What source?”
“The one who saw the Black Widow’s body being moved.”
“Oooo,” Becky says. “Even Maia didn’t think of that. Good theory.”
“Max’s theory.”
“That sounds like you’re still seeing him.” Becky is instantly concerned. “Did you at least check out Max’s story about being missing?”
“Yeah, I did.” There’s an edge to my voice. “What are you going to ask me next? Whether Max could have killed Bigelow?”
“Of course not,” Becky says. “But why bring that up? Do you think Max could have killed Bigelow?”
I think I’ve got to stop getting so defensive whenever Becky brings up Max’s name. “No, I don’t. I didn’t tell you the rest of Max’s theory. He thinks Bigelow invented the witness. You know, to make the story sound better.”
“Why would Max think that?” Becky asks.
Good question, one I didn’t ask. Max said a rumor, but what if Max went to see Bigelow to get the reporter to reveal his source and got angry when he wouldn’t? My mind rewinds to Max emerging from Bigelow’s motel room with his hand covering his mouth. In horror of what he’d discovered?
Or in horror of what he’d done?
Why didn’t it occur to me before now that Max could be the killer, especially with how adamant Max was that we split before the cops came?
“Jade, did you hear me? I asked why Max would think Bigelow invented the witness.”
“Apparently Bigelow had that kind of reputation.” I sound like I’m trying to deflect suspicion from Max. That’s exactly why I’m doing. Just don’t ask me why.
“Hey, isn’t that your mom over there with Roxy?” Becky points to a spot near the colorful sign marking the entrance to Kiddie Land. My mom holds Roxy’s hands in both of hers, gazing up at the carnival boss like she’s into devil worship.
I’m off the bench in a flash, not taking the time to explain anything to Becky. I stop shy of the two women, itching to rip my mother away from Roxy. “Hey! What’s going on?”
“There you are, Jade.” Roxy speaks in singsong, a strange combination with her deep, masculine voice. Under her orange T-shirt, she wears skintight black shorts that extend almost to her knees. Her legs are as muscular and powerful looking as any man’s. “Lizzie and I were about to come looking for you.”
Lizzie?
“You can call my mother Mrs. Greene.”
“I told Roxy to call me Lizzie.” My mother’s speech is too fast, like she’s amped up on Red Bull. Mom’s khaki capris and short-sleeved yellow shirt are rumpled and her hair’s a mess, like she didn’t bother to run a brush through it. “I asked her to dinner.”
“The day after tomorrow,” Roxy says. “I’ll even let you be a little late to work so you can come. Isn’t that great?”
It’s like inviting a vampire into the house. Except how can I object when this particular vampire saved my brother’s life?
“It’s swell.” I barely rein in the sarcasm.
“We’ve got to go,” my mom tells Roxy. “I need to talk to Jade.”
Mom speaks two or three times as fast as usual. She grabs my arm and practically drags me away from Roxy and the children streaming into Kiddie Land.
“Hey, you’re squeezing too hard.”
Mom doesn’t lessen her grip. “We need to go somewhere people can’t hear us.”
“What? Why?”
“I can’t tell you until we get there.” Her eyes look wild, the way they did before she cut out on the family.
My stomach cramps. “Did you stop taking your meds?”
“Ofcoursenot.” She says the words so fast, they run into each other. “Wherecanwego?”
She keeps walking, her head swiveling back and forth. She’s acting way different than last night when she, Julian and Suri came home from the trip to the aquarium with tales of sharks and stingrays and the Gremlins DVD.
Oh, no. My brother and sister. I plant my feet hard, and she has to stop. My arm feels like it’s going to wrench out of the socket, but that’s not important now. “Where are Julian and Suri?”
Her forehead scrunches like she doesn’t understand the question.
“Where?” I demand.
“At home. Withyouruncle.”
Okay, I tell myself. Breathe. I’m no fan of Uncle Landon’s, at least not lately, but he loves Julian and Suri. It’s not my brother and sister I need to worry about. It’s my mother.
“You went to the prison today, right? Did it go okay?”
“No. Yes.” Mom shakes her head up and down, then back and forth. Her eyes dart around. Several people cast curious glances at us, then go back to enjoying themselves. Some little kids skip alongside their parents, so excited their young voices carry above the music from the midway. “Can’ttalkaboutithere.”
“If you try to calm down, I’ll take you somewhere that’s not so crowded.” I peer into her eyes. They’re slightly bloodshot, which can’t be a good sign. “Can you do that?”
After a moment, Mom nods.
Just as I suspect, there aren’t many people near the funhouse. The chilling, hair-raising laughter has freaked out everyone. Okay, not really. The reason the funhouse is unpopular is because it’s lame. Getting the creeps from it puts me in the minority.
“Now tell me what happened today at the prison.” I clear my throat and voice the fear that’s been building since I noticed her strange behavior. “Is my stepfather okay?”
“Nothing to do with him.” Mom still speaks fast but not in double time like before. “Has to do with enemies.”
Not this again.
“You don’t have enemies, Mom. Remember? It was all in your head.”
“Not my enemies.” She grips my hand hard, sending pain shooting up my arm. “Yours.”
It’s still almost eighty degrees, but the wind feels like an icy blast cutting through me.
“People in this town,” my mother says, “they’re not who you think they are. Be careful who you trust. Very, very careful.”
I’d like to shrug off her warning as the ravings of a lunatic, but too much has happened. Her advice actually sounds logical. “Where’s this coming from, Mom? Who told you to warn me?”
She checks the vicinity. Two young girls with their elbows linked pass a few feet from us, laughing uncontrollably about something or other. Their laughter mixes with the canned guffaws from the funhouse. Mom waits until the girls are gone, then leans toward me.
“The voices,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “They’re back.”