Gwen continues reading from the journal, “Police never found their bodies… witness heard gunshots on the mountain that day… witness left town, too… couldn’t be tracked down… saw Michael on the mountain months later… sure of it… went to police… Ray McCready’s guys harassing me.”
“This is insanity! You want me to believe that Scott is a fugitive who killed someone and then changed his name? This woman is nuts. Where’s her proof?”
Gwen looks up. “From what I can make of his notes, Dexter’s mother claims she saw Michael on the mountain months after their disappearance, but when she called his name, he fled. When she tried to kickstart the investigation, she says this Ray McCready sent some guys to scare her. Apparently, McCreadyran a big growing operation up there in the nineties. She dropped it because she was afraid for her life, she says. But then Anton stirred things up, calling and saying he thought that Michael Finch became Scott and started a new life in Bethesda.”
“And how did Anton learn about all this?”
“I don’t know.” Gwen stares out at the mountains in the distance. “Maybe he learned something and went digging? He didn’t mention anything about it in his notes.”
“No, this can’t be right. This is crazy.” Aimee shakes her head wildly as if she can physically banish the thought. “I don’t believe it. Scott is not capable of murdering someone.”
“It doesn’t really matter whether you believe it, if Cathy Stocker does.”
“There’s more to this story, there has to be. She’s confused. She has the wrong person.” Gwen puts the truck in drive and eases back onto the road. “It can’t be Scott. She’s mixed up.”
“It might explain a few things, though,” Gwen says. “Like what Anton was blackmailing Scott about, and why Cathy moved here and hired you. Look at the dates—Anton interviews Cathy several times in August. And then she moves here in September and hires you.”
Aimee shakes her head in defiance. “She has the wrong person. I’m telling you. Although…”
“Although what?”
“She did tell me that she had a son. She said she lost him when he was young.”
“She told you that?”
“Yeah, she had this framed photo of her and a little baby in her kitchen. She must have carried that photo to Jean’s house with her every day and then taken it home every night.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“From the interviews it’s clear she wanted to find out what happened to her son. She wanted to find Michael Finch. AndI’m sure having a picture of her son with her motivated her. She was on a mission.”
“What was her mission?”
“Justice. To bring the people responsible for her son’s death to justice,” Gwen says. “In these interviews she said she had given up on ever finding out what actually happened to Dexter. She had given up hope that anyone would ever be held accountable for his murder. Until Anton contacted her.”
A few minutes later, Aimee noses the truck into the parking lot of a small strip mall. The Little Fox Coffee Shop is the last business, on the far end, just after the Knitter’s Corner yarn shop.
“Here we are.” Aimee cuts the engine.
Gwen gets out and takes a deep breath. The air is just a shade cooler up here than it is closer to D.C. In the distance, Gwen can make out the wavy line of the Blue Ridge Mountains. They are several miles from downtown Frederick, surrounded by farmland, and this little strip mall is the lone commercial post on the road as far as Gwen can see.
Aimee pauses outside the entrance to the coffee shop. “I don’t know what to say in there.”
“Why don’t you let me do the talking?” Gwen says. “Do you have a photo of Cathy on your phone?”
Aimee pulls up the photo of Cathy with the kitten that Jean texted her yesterday and sends the pic to Gwen. The Little Fox is small and cozy. Leaning against the counter is a large blackboard with colorful lettering spelling out the specials, apple caramel cappuccino and oat chai latte. Gwen recognizes an Indigo Girls song playing from the overhead speakers and gets in line. The clientele is a mix of the usual coffee house habitués—a scattering of folks at tables with laptops open in front of them, maybe writing the great American novel, working on spreadsheets, or more likely watching YouTube. The only person in front of her is a burly man with a baseball cap who looks like hespends his days atop a tractor. Gwen waits as he orders a smoky latte, whatever that is, from a slight girl with pale-pink bangs that almost cover her eyes.
Then it’s Gwen’s turn at the counter. When Nova—the girl’s name, according to the tag pinned to her blue apron—asks her what she wants, Gwen asks for a plain black coffee. After using her phone to pay, Gwen keeps the phone out and pulls up the picture of Cathy.
“I have a really weird question.” Gwen smiles at Nova, hoping to disarm her. “I’m looking for my friend—her name’s Cathy. She comes here a lot. Do you recognize her?”
Nova hunches her slender shoulders and leans toward the phone. “She looks vaguely familiar. Skim milk latte?”
“I don’t know her drink,” Gwen says. “Like I said, her name is Cathy. I’m worried about her. Did she come in today?”
A young man who has been cleaning the behemoth silver espresso machine steps to the counter. “Let me see.” He’s short, the same height as Nova, and has a tiny, pointed beard that reminds Gwen of the devil. “I know her! She comes in every morning. She was here, yeah.”