Hush, Hush (Hush, Hush #1)

Hush, Hush (Hush, Hush #1) Page 21

People were generally suspicious of reporters. “But I’m not working tonight,” I amended quickly.

“Strictly pleasure tonight. No business. No underlying agendas. None whatsoever.”

After a count of silence I decided the best move was to plow ahead. I cleared my throat and said, “Is the Borderline a popular place of employment for high school students?”

“We get a lot of those, yeah. Hostesses and busboys and the like.”

“Really?” I said, feigning surprise. “Maybe I know some of them. Try me.”

The bartender angled his eyes toward the ceiling and scratched the stubble on his chin. His blank stare wasn’t inspiring my confidence. Not to mention that I didn’t have a lot of time. Elliot could be slipping lethal drugs into Vee’s Diet Coke.

“How about Patch Cipriano?” I asked. “Does he work here?”

“Patch? Yeah. He works here. A couple nights, and weekends.”

“Was he working Sunday night?” I tried not to sound too curious. But I needed to know if it was possible for Patch to have been at the pier. He said he had a party on the coast, but maybe his plans had changed. If someone verified that he was at work Sunday evening, I could rule out his involvement in the attack on Vee.

“Sunday?” More scratching. “The nights blur together. Try the hostesses. One of them will remember.

They all giggle and go a little screwy when he’s around.” He smiled as if I might somehow sympathize with them.

I said, “You wouldn’t happen to have access to his job application?” Including his home address.

“That would be a no.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “do you know if it’s possible to get hired here if you have a felony on your record?”

“A felony?” He gave a bark of laughter. “You kidding me?”

“Okay, maybe not a felony, but how about a misdemeanor?”

He spread his palms on the counter and leaned close. “No.” His tone had shifted from humoring to insulted.

“That’s good. That’s really good to know.” I repositioned myself on the bar stool, and felt the skin on my thighs peel away from the vinyl. I was sweating. If rule number one of flirting was no lists, I was fairly certain rule number two was no sweating.

I consulted my list.

“Do you know if Patch has ever had any restraining orders? Does he have a history of stalking?” I suspected the bartender was getting a bad vibe from me, and I decided to throw all my questions out in a last­ditch effort before he sent me away from the bar—or worse, had me evicted from the restaurant for harassment and suspicious behavior. “Does he have a girlfriend?” I blurted.

“Go ask him,” he said.

I blinked. “He’s not working tonight.”

At the bartender’s grin, my stomach seemed to unravel.

“He’s not working tonight … is he?” I asked, my voice inching up an octave. “He’s supposed to have Tuesdays off!”

“Usually, yeah. But he’s covering for Benji. Benji went to the hospital. Ruptured appendix.”

“You mean Patch is here? Right now?” I glanced over my shoulder, brushing the wig to cover my profile while I scanned the dining area for him.

“He walked back to the kitchen a couple minutes ago.”

I was already disengaging myself from the bar stool. “I think I left my car running. But it was great talking to you!” I hurried as quickly as I could to the restrooms.

Inside the ladies’ room I locked the door behind me, drew a few breaths with my back pressed to the door, then went to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. Patch was going to find out I’d spied on him. My memorable performance guaranteed that. On the surface, this was a bad thing because it was, well, humiliating. But when I thought about it, I had to face the fact that Patch was very secretive.

Secretive people didn’t like their lives pried into. How would he react when he learned I was holding him under a magnifying glass?

And now I wondered why I’d come here at all, since deep inside, I didn’t believe Patch was the guy behind the ski mask. Maybe he had dark, disturbing secrets, but running around in a ski mask wasn’t one of them.

I turned off the tap, and when I looked up, Patch’s face was reflected in the mirror. I shrieked and swung around.

He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t look particularly amused.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped.

“I work here.”

“I mean here. Can’t you read? The sign on the door—”

“I’m starting to think you’re following me. Every time I turn around, there you are.”

“I wanted to take Vee out,” I explained. “She’s been in the hospital.” I sounded defensive. I was certain that only made me look more guilty. “I never dreamed I’d run into you. It’s supposed to be your night off. And what are you talking about? Every time I turn around, there you are.”

Patch’s eyes were sharp, intimidating, extracting. They calculated my every word, my every movement.

“Want to explain the tacky hair?” he said.

I yanked off the wig and tossed it on the counter. “Want to explain where you’ve been? You missed the last two days of school.”

I was almost certain Patch wouldn’t reveal his whereabouts, but he said, “Playing paintball. What were you doing at the bar?”

“Talking with the bartender. Is that a crime?” Balancing one hand against the counter, I raised my foot to unbuckle a sharkskin heel. I bent over slightly, and as I did, the interrogation list fluttered out of my neckline and onto the floor.

I went down on my knees for it, but Patch was faster. He held it over his head while I jumped for it.

“Give it back!” I said.

“ ‘Does Patch have a restraining order against him?’“ he read. “ ‘Is Patch a felon?’”

“Give—me—that!” I hissed furiously.

Patch gave a soft laugh, and I knew he’d seen the next question. “ ‘Does Patch have a girlfriend?’ “

Patch put the paper in his back pocket. I was sorely tempted to go after it, despite its location.

He leaned back against the counter and leveled our eyes. “If you’re going to dig around for information, I’d prefer that you ask me.”

“Those questions”—I waved where he’d hidden them—“were a joke. Vee wrote them,” I added in a flash of inspiration. “It’s all her fault.”

“I know your handwriting, Nora.”

“Well, okay, fine,” I began, hunting for a smart reply, but I took too long and lost my chance.

“No restraining orders,” he said. “No felonies.”

I tilted my chin up. “Girlfriend?” I told myself I didn’t care how he answered. Either way was fine with me.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You tried to kiss me,” I reminded him. “You made it my business.”

The ghost of a pirate smile lurked at his mouth. I got the impression he was recalling every last detail of that near kiss, including my sigh­slash­moan.

“Ex­girlfriend,” he said after a moment.

My stomach dropped as a sudden thought popped into my mind. What if the girl from Delphic and Victoria’s Secret was Patch’s ex? What if she saw me talking to Patch at the arcade and— mistakenly—

assumed there was a lot more to our relationship? If she was still attracted to Patch, it made sense that she might be jealous enough to follow me around. A few puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place… .

And then Patch said, “But she’s not around.”

“What do you mean she’s not around?”

“She’s gone. She’s never coming back.”

“You mean … she’s dead?” I asked.

Patch didn’t deny it.

My stomach suddenly felt heavy and twisted. I hadn’t expected this. Patch had a girlfriend, and now she was dead.

The door to the ladies’ room rattled as someone tried to enter. I’d forgotten I’d locked it. Which made me wonder how Patch got in. Either he had a key, or there was another explanation. An explanation I probably didn’t want to think about, such as gliding under the door like air. Like smoke.

“I need to get back to work,” Patch said. He gave me a once­over that lingered a bit below the hips.

“Killer skirt. Deadly legs.”

Before I’d formed a single coherent thought, he was through the door.

The older woman waiting for admittance looked at me, then over her shoulder at Patch, who was vanishing down the hall. “Honey,” she told me, “he looks slippery as soap.”

“Good description,” I mumbled.

She fluffed her short, corkscrew gray hair. “A girl could lather up in soap like that.”

After I changed back into my clothes, I returned to the booth and slid in beside Vee. Elliot checked his watch and lifted his eyebrows at me.

“Sorry I was gone so long,” I said. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nope,” said Vee. “Same old, same old.” She bumped my knee, and the question was implied. Well?

Before I could return the bump, Elliot said, “You missed the waitress. I ordered you a red burrito.” A creepy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I saw my chance.

“Actually, I’m not sure I’m up to eating.” I managed a nauseated face that wasn’t altogether contrived.

“I think I caught what Jules has.”

“Oh, man,” Vee said. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll hunt down our waitress and get her to box the food,” Vee suggested, digging in her purse for keys.

“What about me?” said Elliot, sounding only half joking.

“Rain check?” Vee said.

Bingo, I thought.

CHAPTER 14

I GOT BACK TO THE FARMHOUSE SHORTLY BEFORE EIGHT. I turned my key in the lock, grabbed the doorknob, and shoved my hip against the door. I’d called my mom a few hours before dinner; she was at the office, tying up a few loose ends, not sure when she’d be home, and I expected to find the house quiet, dark, and cold.

On the third shove, the door gave way, and I hurled my handbag into the darkness, then wrestled with the key still jammed in the lock. Ever since the night Patch came over, the lock had developed a greedy disposition. I wondered if Dorothea had noticed it earlier in the day.

“Give—me—the—dumb—key,” I said, jiggling it free.

The grandfather clock in the hall ticked on the hour, and eight loud dong s reverberated through the silence. I was walking into the living room to start a fire in the wood­burning stove when there was the rustle of fabric and a low creak from across the room.

I screamed.

“Nora!” my mom said, throwing off a blanket and scrambling into a sitting position on the sofa. “What in the world’s the matter?”

I had one hand splayed across my heart and the other flattened against the wall, supporting me. “You scared me!”