Friend Me (32 page)

The
Voice
was across from the Sunoco station, two blocks east. Scott held Rachel's hand as they walked across the short bridge. Her hand was warm in his. “Are you ready to play detective?”

“Just remember to call me Lucy, okay? I'm here checking on my family history.”

The old storefront had a single, large plate glass window, cracked through in one corner. The words
Blairsville Voice
were still stenciled in an arc of red letters across the center of the glass.

Scott turned the brass knob on the door. “Locked.” He shaded his eyes from the sun, and bent over to look in closer. Two eyes looked back at him. He jumped back.

The doorknob rattled and the door swung inward. A wizened old man's face stared back at him. “Help you folks?”

Scott caught his breath as Rachel laughed softly behind him. “Yes, sir. Is this still the office for the
Blairsville Voice
?”

“Only one we got. But we don't print the paper no more. You folks are welcome to come in, though. I don't get many visitors.” He opened the door wider. Scott stepped through and Rachel followed. The room was dim, the walls taken up with shelves reaching to the top of the tin ceiling, which were filled with large, dusty green binders. An ashtray and some of the binders lay in disarray on an old conference table that sat in the middle of the room.

“This is it.” The old man swept his hand around the room. “The
Blairsville Voice
, from 1886 right up to the last day. That was last year, Fourth of July.” He turned and made his way to an old, wooden office chair. Dust spiraled around his feet as he sat down. “My name's Harold Ranger. Thirty years ago I used to run our Linotype machine. What can I do for you?”

Ranger indicated two empty seats beside the conference table. Scott pulled one chair out for Rachel and took the second for himself. “We'd like to look at some of the issues for the year or two prior to when you stopped publication. We're doing some research.”

“What kind of research, son?” Ranger raised an eyebrow and squinted at Scott. “I don't think you're from around here, are you?”

Rachel spoke. “No, sir. But my family was originally from here.”

Ranger turned his face toward her.

“I'm trying to gather information on my family history. People told us this is the place to come and that you were the man to see.”

He settled back in his chair, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well, that's prob'ly right. Anybody wants to know anything about this area, this is where you come.”

He sat back. “What's the family name?”

“Montalvo. It's Italian.”

“Oh, that it is. Lots of Italians around here. Are you any relation to the Montalvos up the hill towards Blake Cemetery?”

“I don't know. I guess I could be. Who are they?”

“Well, I guess I prob'ly said that wrong. It's not Montalvos anymore, like with an
s
on the end. There's only one left up there now. She lives up there alone. Sound like what you're looking for?”

Rachel and Scott exchanged glances. “Sure, I'm interested in anything you've got. Up where?” asked Scott.

The old man didn't answer, just sat in place, his eyes flicking back and forth between the couple before him.

“Sir?” Scott began.

Ranger stood up, turned, and walked back to the door. Without hesitation he opened it wide and stepped back.

“You two come back after lunch. Maybe I'll have something, maybe not.”

“Mr. Ranger, I . . .”

Rachel pulled on Scott's sleeve.

“We'll be back, Mr. Ranger,” said Rachel. “Thank you so much for your time.”

Outside, Scott followed Rachel as she turned right and
started walking down the street. “What happened in there?”

“He wasn't sure about us. Give him some time. He said after lunch, and that's what we'll do,” said Rachel.

He didn't like waiting. “Maybe we should try to find that cemetery.”

“No, we'll just be patient. Go to the library, whatever.”

She stopped, turned her face up to his. “That man knows something, and I think he wants to tell us. Just give him some time to convince himself that it's okay for him to do it.”

•  •  •

AT ONE-THIRTY
they found the door to the
Blairsville Voice
already ajar. Scott pushed it open to find the old man slumped back in an oilskin chair.

Ranger lifted himself out of the chair and shuffled over to the shelves. He pulled down a large volume and examined the label on the cover. “You'll find what you need here, I think. Fourteen years ago.”

The book hit the table in an expanding cloud of dust. “Sorry about that. Not much of a housekeeper.” He coughed. “Dust is gonna kill me if I don't get it first.”

He leafed through the pages of newsprint in the book until he found what he was looking for. “Lady, I hope this part isn't about your family. We was all pretty shook up when this happened.” He stepped aside.

The article title was “Double Homicide.” In smaller text beneath it was “First Double Murder in a Century.” A picture of a weeping woman getting into a police car was on the right.

Scott stiffened. “Oh, wow. I see what you mean. A double murder.”

“Yep. Never arrested nobody, neither. Nothing like that happened before or since. Left that woman up on the hill a widow.”

“Look at this.” Scott pointed out the names. “They're all named Montalvo.”

Rachel looked at the yellowing paper. “So this man, Anthony Montalvo, was stabbed to death? And his wife too?”

The old man stirred. “Wait a minute. They wasn't married. Just had the same last name. Tony Montalvo was married to the lady up there on the hill, but that day—it was close on to the end of spring that year—he was at his brother Ed's house out the other end of town.

“It was Ed's wife died with Tony. Somebody killed them both. Stabbed 'em.”

Rachel twitched. A shiver ran through her body. “That's so awful.”

“Who did it?” asked Scott, eyes questioning.

“Never knew for sure. Ed killed hisself later on. After he did that, most people figured it was him what killed everybody. But Tony's wife, why, like I say, she still lives up there in the same old house, all by herself. Never got married again. They never had any kids or nothin'. Just lives all alone.” He looked wistful.

Rachel asked, “Mr. Ranger, so you're saying that this lady is the only survivor of all that? No children or anyone else left?”

“Oh, there was one. The other family, the one across town? Where the dead woman was from. Ed and her had a daughter. Don't know what ever became of her. I think she left before her father died. Haven't heard nothin' about the daughter for years.”

Scott and Rachel caught and held each other's eyes, then Scott asked, “Do you remember her name, Mr. Ranger?”

“Rose. Her name's Rose. She just lives up there all by herself.”

“No, Mr. Ranger, I mean the daughter. The one from the other family across town. Do you remember the daughter's name?”

Ranger twisted up his face in concentration. He was saying something under his breath—“ . . . issa, isha, issa.” Then he shook his head. “I don't remember, rightly. Maybe it'll come to me. Rose'll know. You ask her.”

Five minutes later, Scott turned up North Street.

“From Ranger's directions, we ought to be there in two minutes or less.” He negotiated a left turn. “That street up there should be Willis. Blake Cemetery and the house ought to be at the end of the road.”

“What are we going to say, Scott? What if she doesn't want to talk to us? Then where are we?”

“We'll be in the same spot we were an hour ago.” He grinned at her. “And we keep making good progress.”

“It's all so creepy. I mean, could she have something to do with the deaths of those people?”

Scott slowed, seeing kids' toys near the roadside. “I don't know. But if I were going to bet, I'd say we found our girl. She appears to have a violent history.” As he said the words, he felt a sting of guilt.
I'm your girl
. That's what she'd said.

Willis was a dead end. He drove the Taurus to the end of the road, where a wooden power line pole blocked any further progress. A white wooden sign hung off a four-by-four frame with painted blue lettering: “BLAKE CEMETERY.”

“We're here.”

•  •  •

THE HOUSE
, a low, gray ranch with blue trim, was on the north side of the road. A yellow garden hose lay outside on the grass next to two cushioned lawn chairs.

“Could this be the place? Look at the two chairs, and there's a lawn swing at the other end of the yard. That seems strange.”

Scott clucked his tongue. “Three twenty-one Willis. This is right. But I see what you mean. If she's alone, why two chairs?”

They parked along the edge of the road in front of the home.

Scott knocked on the storm door. The inner door was open, but the glare on the glass kept him from seeing anything inside.

A coarse woman's voice called out, “Who's there?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montalvo. Can my wife and I speak with you for a minute?”

From somewhere within the gloom of the house, a slender woman in a dark cotton dress stepped close to the glass door. Her hair was gray, streaked with black. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Mrs. Montalvo, My name is Gary, and this is my wife, Lucy. We're doing some research on our family history. Harold Ranger down at the
Blairsville Voice
said we should come up and talk to you.”

“I know, I know.” She came up close to the door, eyes narrowing as she peered through the glass. “You the ones Harold called about. From the
Voice
.”

“Yes, ma'am. He thought we should talk with you.”

“Well, you can't come in. Why would he send you up here? You know, they don't even print the
Voice
anymore.” She crossed
her arms in front of her and took a step back. “So what do you want?”

“Mrs. Montalvo?” Rachel pressed her face up closer to the door. “We'd really like to talk to you.” She turned and pointed to the lawn chairs outside. “Could we sit in those beautiful lawn chairs and talk for a few minutes? You have such a lovely home, and it all looks so welcoming.”

“Outside? Okay, maybe.” She pushed the door open and stepped outside, pulling her dress together at her neck. “Only got two chairs, though.” She turned her head back up to Rachel. “Lucy? Your name's Lucy? Lucy what?”

“It used to be Montalvo. But just call me Lucy, okay?”

Scott reached for the woman's elbow to help her across the lawn, but she pushed his hand away. “Don't need your help.” She walked to the end of the house, where the two padded lawn chairs were. She sat down, and pointed Rachel to the other chair. Scott squatted down on the soft grass next to Rachel.

“This is a beautiful yard, Mrs. Montalvo,” said Rachel. “I imagine you love being down here at the end of the road without a lot of traffic.”

“It's pretty nice, all right. Marie from across the street comes over and we sit here and talk about things. Marie's alone too, you know.”

She pointed to a large locust tree in the center of the yard. “See that tree? My Tony planted that back in 1963 when we first moved up here on the hill. Tony was my husband. My name's Rose.”

Scott scrutinized her as she spoke. She was thin, wiry. He glanced around the yard, noting the landscaping. She was not a weak woman.

Her gaze turned toward Rachel. “Your name's Montalvo? Your family from around here?”

“No, we're from up in Indianapolis. We heard there was some history here with the Montalvo family.”

“That's what you're here about? 'Bout what happened to Tony?”

“In a way. Mr. Ranger said maybe you could help us.”

“Well, Harold's a good man. If he sent you up here, then I don't guess it would be any problem telling you.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “It was in May, when kids was getting out of school. Tony'd gone over across town to help his brother with some gutter work. The way they tell it, Ed was gone when Tony got there and Tony was home alone with Marie.”

“Marie?”

“Marie was his sister-in-law. Ed's wife. He'd been over there longer than he needed to be.” She shot Scott a hard look. “Men got one thing on their minds. You cook, you clean . . .”

“What happened, Rose?” Rachel asked.

“That's when she killed him.” She pushed her jaw out, neck muscles tightening. “That's when she killed my Tony.”

Rachel's eyebrows rose. “Marie? Marie killed Tony?”

“No, not Marie. What did Harold tell you? Marie got it too. She killed both of them. Killed her mother, killed my Tony.”

She bent down, picked up a twig from the grass and snapped pieces of it off. “Next year after that, Ed was gone, too. Killed himself, they say. I say was she that did it. Took everything he had away.”

“Who, Mrs. Montalvo? Who did it?”

Yellow teeth showed briefly behind a pitiless smile. “Police
say Tony killed Marie, then killed himself. They were wrong.”

“How do you know they were wrong? Do you really know who did it?”

“Sure I know. She came here and told me what she done. Thought I'd understand.” Her laugh came cold and hard. “Understand? Oh, yeah. Know what I understand? I understand what it means to live alone in this old house. I understand what it is to live every day in pain, knowing she's still out there somewhere.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“They thought I was crazy. Told me I was a Gypsy liar. Said it was all over. All closed up neat as you please.”