The Silence of Murder Read Online Free PDF

The dark roots have grown a couple of inches out from her scalp. I can tell she’s heading off to waitress at the Colonial Café because she’s caught up her hair in a rhinestone clip—a safety pin snapped around a haystack.
    She squints up the hall at me. “Where the devil have you been?” In other families, like T.J.’s, mothers greet their kids with “Hi, honey. How was your day?” This is Rita’s version.
    “I’ve been in court.” Suddenly I’m dying of thirst. I head back to the kitchen.
    “I know that,” she snaps, following me.
    “And you didn’t drive me home, so—”
    “I know that too. What I want to know is why that TV van is parked out front. What did you say in that courtroom?”
    “I said Jeremy was crazy. Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?” I open the fridge. Nothing to drink but beer and out-of-date milk.
    “You better have said that.” She checks her watch. “Raymond called and wants you at his place at seven.”
    I step back so I can see the pear-shaped kitchen clock that hangs above the toaster. It’s six-fifteen. The sooner I get out of this prep-school skirt and blouse, the better. I need my jeans. I head for my room, which is just off the living room. Jeremy’s bedroom separates Rita’s and mine. “Can you drop me off on your way to work?” I ask.
    “No. I’m leaving now. I was supposed to be there at six. I hate this shift.” She says this like it’s my fault she’s working tonight. It probably is. If I didn’t have to get coached by Raymond, Rita would likely make me work for her.
    Coached by Raymond
. I don’t even want to think the word
coached
. Suddenly a picture pops into my head of Coach Johnson straightening Jeremy’s Panther hat before a game, as if my brother would be stepping up to the batter’s box and had to look just right. Jeremy’s tongue is hanging out, like a puppy that’s been patted on the head.
    I shake my head to get rid of that image. As if my brain is an Etch A Sketch, the tiny gray crystals of Jeremy and Coach together break up and slide down. But they’re both still on my mind.
    Rita hasn’t left yet. I trail back to the living room, whereshe’s reapplying dark red lipstick, making a fish face in the mirror. “Rita,” I ask, leaning on the back of the sofa, “what was he like?”
    “Who?”
    We’re six feet apart, a body’s length. Coach was about six feet tall. “Coach Johnson. What was he like?”
    She shoves a pack of cigarettes into her purse. “You saw him more than I did.”
    “But you and Coach went to high school together, right? What was he like then?”
    Still not looking at me, she stands on one foot and slaps a two-inch-heeled sandal onto her other foot. “He was like every high school boy—girl-crazy. And not a one of them knew what to do with a girl when they got one.” She sticks her other foot into a sandal and stares at her red-tipped toes. “Jay Jay wasn’t quite like the rest, though. He was all right.”
    This is a lot for Rita to say about any male. I try to imagine both of them at my age, but I can’t see it.
    “It was a long time ago.” She grabs her purse off the back of the chair and opens the front door. “The TV van’s gone.” I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved. She takes our umbrella and closes the door behind her.
    By the time I grab a sandwich and change into jeans, I have to leave for Raymond’s. I know where his house is, even though I’ve never been inside. All of our other meetings with Raymond have been at our house, or in his tiny law office on Main, next to the Subway shop.
    Since Rita took the umbrella, I have to hope the rain holds off for now, and that Raymond can drive me home when we’re done. The shortest route is straight up MainStreet, but I don’t take that. Instead, I circle the back lot behind the IGA and go across the street to the thrift store, behind the post office, through the bank drive-through to the sidewalk by St. Stephen’s Catholic