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“What?” she asked.
“Did Glenn receive any note recently?”
“What kind of note?” Gia asked emotionlessly.
“A nursery rhyme,” Becca said.
Gia turned to her. “Is that a joke, because it’s not funny.” She slowly released her grip on her mother.
“I think this has gone on long enough,” Mama said.
“I received one,” Hudson said, “so we wondered if Glenn had, too.”
“A nursery rhyme. Let me see it.” Gia stuck out her hand and Hudson, after a brief hesitation, reached into his pocket and handed over the note and the blue envelope.
“It came through the mail.”
Gia shook her head. “Who sent it?”
“We don’t know.”
“You think it was the dead girl,” she said with sudden understanding, and her mother drew in a hiss of breath and looked around as if evil spirits were about to materialize. “Glenn said something about nursery rhymes and that girl. She was a tease.”
“We don’t even know if Glenn’s note exists,” Hudson said. “Another friend, Christopher Delacroix, received one.”
“The Third. I know him. The same as this?” She glanced at the card, her nose wrinkling.
“That’s what I understand. I haven’t seen it yet.”
“And you think Glenn may have got one. Why?”
“It’s a mystery,” Becca said. “We’re trying to figure out who received them, who sent them, and why.”
“Well, if he got one, I never saw it.” After a moment, she said, “Have you told the police? Like maybe that’s why Glenn’s dead…something to do with that Jessie?”
“We haven’t talked to anyone but you,” Hudson said.
“It’s like she killed him,” Gia said suddenly, and her mother shook her head. “That’s what she did, that bitch! She reached right out of the grave and burned him up!” Gia started crying in earnest again, and after a few awkward moments where Becca and Hudson could only stand by while Gia’s mother rocked her daughter in her arms, they expressed their condolences again and took their leave.
“Are we going to see The Third?” Becca asked.
“Next on the list.”
Mitch Bellotti was in overalls that tightened around his bulging middle. He was wiping his hands on a gray rag as Mac slammed the door of his Jeep and crossed the asphalt apron that led to Mike’s Garage, a surprisingly clean establishment where tools hung on the wall in precise rows. An older-model blue Triumph was on a lift and Mitch was conversing with a skinny, sixtyish man whose craggy face practically fell in on itself, it was so lined.
Hearing Mac’s door slam, Mitch looked his way. There was a moment or two of blankness, then recognition dawned. He didn’t offer to shake hands, just kept wiping his own on the rag as his expression grew grimmer. Mac introduced himself but it wasn’t necessary as Mitch responded with, “I knew you’d come. You’ve talked to everybody else. But God, man, on this day? You know about Glenn, don’t you?”
“I went to the scene last night.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. Especially now.” The smell of oil and grease permeated the air and an old greyhound was lying on a rug near the back door.
Mac realized Mitch was fighting back tears and felt a twinge of pity. He’d never really thought Mitch had anything to do with Jessie’s disappearance, then or now, but he felt he might know something-maybe something he didn’t know he knew. “I’m sorry about Glenn,” Mac said, meaning it.
“You think it has something to do with-Jessie? Is that why you’re here, man?”
“Do you?” Mac asked curiously.
“I guess it could just be a coincidence.” He sounded as doubtful as Mac felt.
