Page 67 of Don't Say a Word
“He was so tired all the time,” Mrs. Martinez said quietly. “He worked long hours all summer, took a class at the community college, it was too much. I didn’t see him enough. I told him I loved him the night before. He hugged me. Kissed me. I hold on to that.”
Angie hadn’t known that Elijah was taking classes over the summer. They’d talked about doing it together, but when theywere going to sign up, he said he didn’t have time because of his job. Had he not wanted to do it with her? Had she made him mad? She couldn’t think of anything she’d done.
She wasn’t going to hold it against him, because she didn’t know what he had been thinking. She tried not to be hurt.
Angie drank her 7UP and listened to Mrs. Martinez talk about Elijah. It was nice to hear happy stories about him.
Then suddenly Mrs. Martinez started to cry. “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Angie said, got up, and hugged her.
“I need—I need to go lie down.”
“I’ll come by in a few days?”
“Yes. Please, that would be nice.”
Angie let herself out, then finally let herself cry as she slowly walked home.
Chapter Twenty
Margo Angelhart
I texted Jack that I would be a little late to dinner at Laura’s, then drove to Danielle Duran’s house.
The Durans lived on a tree-lined street famous because every house had a wagon wheel in their front yard. Most had entwined lights, some were surrounded by flowers, some were left unadorned. Next to the Duran wheel was a whimsical metal cactus wearing a cowboy hat. I never understood why anyone in Arizona had fake cacti on display when it would be so easy to grow a real one.
One of the girls I’d played softball with lived on this street and sometimes her mom would drive me home after practice.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to approach Danielle, and I would have preferred to do it without any parents around, but getting back on campus after Lena’s murder would be more difficult, so this was my best option.
Sometimes, lying was the most effective approach to getting information. This wasn’t something I talked about with my Uncle Rafe, the priest. I understood his point of view, but deception often uncovered truth. Thus, if I needed to fib to get Danielle to talk to me, I would. But I’d start with honesty and see where it went.
Winging it was an important rule in the unwritten PI handbook.
An older SUV and a newer, practical Honda Civic were in the carport. Both had public safety license plates, and the SUV had a Proud Parents of a Marine sticker on the back window. The yard was neatly trimmed with potted flowers on the narrow porch, which was framed by two flags: an American flag on one side, an Arizona Cardinals flag on the other.
When I knocked, a dog barked twice, then stopped. I heard him sniffing around the door. A woman said, “Back, Curly, back.”
She opened the door. Through the decorative security screen I saw the distorted image of a tall, slender women in her fifties and a brown labradoodle who stood nearly to her waist, his tongue hanging out in excitement for a visitor.
“May I help you?” the woman said.
“Mrs. Duran?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Margo Angelhart, a private investigator, hoping to ask your daughter some questions about a fellow student of hers who died of a drug overdose. She was in some of his classes, and I’m helping his mother fill in some blanks during his last week, to give her peace of mind.” A mom would have empathy with Mrs. Martinez.
“A student died? That’s awful. I heard the counselor was murdered yesterday, right on campus!”
“The student died two weekends ago. Is Danielle here?”
“Dani is babysitting until eight,” she said.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I don’t know how I can help,” she said. “Who died?”
