6. Who Killed Jonny’s Mom?
Jenna Marionette arrived at the Cozy Nook to join her Mom for breakfast, an arrangement ongoing for a few years now; meeting after Jenna dropped Carter off at school.
As an independent financial advisor, Jenna made her own hours and left her mornings free.
Let the market cool by lunchtime, as it normally did and then take a look; besides, with the country roaring out of the dot-com bubble, she could throw darts at her favorite stocks and watch her clients’ money grow.
Jenna scheduled her meetings for the afternoon and thanks to the Internet, finished the business day at home while Carter did homework.
Content with the trajectory of her life, Jenna was a spectacular example of a small and growing population segment of America: young and female and wealthy and fiercely independent.
Carter was born out of wedlock and since his birth, Jenna had little use for men; well, except for the occasional, specifically arranged date (dang!—another thing the internet made easy these days).
Jenna was two inches over six feet and built solid, more along the lines of her professional athlete brother than her willowy older sister, Jackie.
Jenna kept her hair short with thin bangs and walked with long strides.
Meeting her Mom that morning, she wore a navy business suit with a pencil skirt and a white blouse.
Arrived at the Nook at precisely 8:30, knowing her Mom should have been there for at least 15 minutes and working on a second cup of coffee.
The corner table where Leslie always sat by the window was empty.
Carla, an assistant manager at the Nook, was setting a table and saw Jenna enter and come to a sudden stop. She asked, “Is your mom supposed to be here?”
“Yes she is,” Jenna said, a bit loud, due to a worry-infused dose of adrenaline.
“That’s not like her.”
“No. I’m stepping outside to call.”
***
Minutes later, Jenna pulled up to the house in which she grew up, a massive colonial with rows of extra-large, glass block windows and the beautiful landscaping.
She swung into the drive leading to a four-door garage. Opened the door and started to get out, but then leaned back in and gave the horn a good, five-second blast.
Walked across the front lawn with her long strides and under the tudor arch entry and through the front door.
Cut through the sitting room and practically flew past the marble table in the dining area before instinct kicked in and she slowed entering the kitchen.
Leslie had been dead for approximately 20 hours.
She was wearing the new, sky-blue outfit Jenna had just bought for her with a mauve sweater and lay on the kitchen floor in a fetal position, blond hair like a yolk in the middle of a dark and reddish-brown pool of blood.
The first stages of rigor mortis had begun and unseen, billions of bacteria had started to eat through intestines that were now deteriorating at a cellular level, like the rest of her organs.
Just enough of something had leaked out of her body to tinge the air with something gross.
Jenna was physically stronger than most men and had the requisite set of powerful lungs; thus, when she started screaming, because the front door was left open, the entire neighborhood heard the alarm.
***
Not long after Jenna Marionette began screaming, Kevin lay in The Worthboro Medical Center’s short term recovery area. Surveyed the white curtains drawn in a quadrangle around the bed and thought, I can no longer procreate.
Shifted under the sheets and even though the pain wasn’t that bad, having arisen from such an extra-uncomfortable source, Kevin couldn’t help but groan.
“You awake, Mr. Dell,” the nurse asked while simultaneously pulling aside the curtain.
She pushed a wheeled table with his belongings next to the bed, saying that his phone had been beeping for the past 10 minutes.
Clenching his stomach against what was happening in his groin, Kevin groggily reached from the bed to open the plastic bag with his belongings. Found his cell and flipped it open and saw voicemails and texts awaited.
Oh shit, something bad happened.
Messages from Jimmy, Lori and Beverly Swiss-Castro. And Sara, who would be at the gym.
He checked Sara’s message first.
Just checking on you. Don’t know if you found out yet. Leslie Marionette died. I’m so sorry. Call me when you can.
Kevin groaned again. Louder.
The nurse asked in a different tone than before, “You alright Mr. Dell?”
“I’m fine.”
From a physical standpoint, the vasectomy was no big deal.
The doctor had told him, “You need to be careful for 24 hours. Unless the newspaper requires you to do physical labor, you can return to sitting-in-a-chair kind of stuff. But not until tomorrow. Today, you do nothing and make sure those stitches take hold.”
He jokingly added, “No tumbling around at your wife’s place for at least another week.”
Thus, as much as Kevin craved to be in the newsroom the morning that Leslie Marionette’s body was found, he was forced to spend the remainder of the day at home.
After a ride from the health clinic, Kevin hobbled into the house and into his office and called Lori to check how the paper was handling the terrible—but from a local standpoint, hugely significant—news.
Lori provided the first, startling fact. “Kev-meister, she was killed! You know, murdered!”
Quickly added, “We can’t call it a murder yet, cuz most of the details are hush-hush. We can fill you in later, when you get your skinny ass back in here. Feel better, bye.”
Lori hung up.
Kevin tried Chip next.
“Yeah, some motherfucker killed her in the house. Some kinda robbery or something. Maybe. I don’t know, man. Brillo aint sayin’ much. S’all I got. Gotta fuckin go.”
Chip hung up.
Kevin called Jimmy shortly thereafter and they both had a melancholy laugh at how the two of them were at home in recovery.
Jimmy, who had worked the day before and was therefore obligated to take today off, said, “I met Leslie the same summer as you, I think.”
“The summer of 85,” Kevin said.
“That magical summer.”
“Yes it was.”
“Where’s Jonny?”
“Houston, I suppose. That’s where the team is.”
“Right. Have you tried reaching him yet?”
“No.”
“You think this was because of him? Some nut job thinking she’s gotta have some of his money?”
“There’s always a reason.”
A pause, then Jimmy asked, “What about the husband? William? You know him?”
“Not really. I mean, I know him, but not like I know Leslie. He was never around, not even when Jonny was in Little League.”
“But the guy’s loaded, right? And they’re separated?”
“They’re all wealthy, even without Jonny,” Kevin said. “Family’s blessed that way. But yeah, Leslie and William have been separated for years; though, I think technically they’re still married.”
“So he’s not a suspect?”
“Not a chance.”
Jimmy breathed heavily into the phone, showing the frustration that would eventually lead to only more confusion. “Shit man,” he said. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So how do you feel about writing her story?”
“Oh hell Jimmy, I gotta do this.”
“Right. I figured, but you know, wanted to check. Take your time.”
“I will. Thanks.”
***
Still sore the next day, with Sara being off at the No. 2 gym through the afternoon and the kids at school, there was no way Kevin could remain cooped up; thus, once the paper was past deadline, he cautiously maneuvered into the GTO and made the short drive to the Chronicle.
Worthboro’s picturesque downtown was busy.
Like stout, metallic beetles, a half-dozen broadcasting vans were parked alongside the town common, telescoping masts fully extended, news crews huddled around cameras on tripods, prepping for the lunchtime broadcast.
Leslie’s son Jonny was famous and her murder would get national attention.
Kevin could see why all the news crews picked the same backdrop.
Worthboro’s town common was as wide as a soccer field was long and more than twice that in length, an expanse of green scattered with circular islands of immaculately raked mulch, each circle occupied by a towering sycamore.
Kevin knew plenty of old timers in town who enthusiastically maintained the unproven rumor that George Washington and his troops once sheltered amongst those trees.
Along the stone walkways, seating benches of black wrought iron and large cement planters bursting with spring flowers.
The brick-orange of the library loomed through the camouflage mottle of the lower branches.
***
Kevin sat with Jimmy, Lori and Chip in the pickle room, each of them to a side of the table, having returned from lunch to meet and talk about the events of the past 24 hours.
Looking at Kevin, Chip said, “Doesn’t this remind you of Michael Jordan’s Dad?”
Before Kevin could answer Lori asked, “You have a premonition or something, Chipster?”
Lori, freckled, with a profusion of wild, brown and curly hair, had shoulders like a powerlifter, giving the impression she’d spent half her life in a gym; though, comically, Lori didn’t know a darn thing about sports, let alone powerlifting.
When Kevin first met her 20 years ago, Lori was a few years out of college, fast-talking and witty. A self-described, liberal feminist.
Like Kevin, Lori left the Chronicle for a time, but returned to raise her child in Worthboro and now, with Jimmy struggling, found herself sharing leadership with her old boss and mentor.
Chip asked, “You know who Michael Jordan is?”
Lori raised an eyebrow. “Basketball. Yes?”
“His Dad was fuckin murdered like … I don’t know, a few years ago.
Kevin said, “1993.”
“Fuck! That long ago?”
Kevin nodded and Lori said, “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, the guy pulled off the road just to take a fuckin nap and these fuckin derelicts stumbled across him and shot him. Just to fuckin rob the guy.”
Lori repeated (adding the appropriate adjective), “That’s fuckin horrible.”
“I know,” Chip said. “That’s what I mean. Michael fuckin Jordan and now Jonny Marionette?”
Lori (straight-faced), “You think there’s a connection?”
“What? No. Fuck you. I’m just saying what are the odds, ya know?”
Jimmy said, “Well, we don’t know what happened, yet, but a lotta people know who Leslie Marionette is because of Jonny.” He looked pointedly at Kevin while adding, “She’d be an easy target, I’d guess.”
Kevin nodded and looked at Chip. “Brillo tell you anything?”
Chip waved his hands around in a way to convey the sensitivity level. “Off the fuckin record, Brillo has a weird feeling. Fucked if I know what he actually means by that.”
Lori said, “Okay, so? He told you something?”
Chip shrugged. “When I asked him what he thought happened, he said that Leslie was killed in a way that made him suspicious. Gave him a weird feeling, was how he put it. S’all I got. Ask too many questions and Brillo has a look that makes me think I’m about to hear Darth Vader breathing.”
Lori looked at Jimmy. “Jim-ster, you’re not gonna have another heart attack on us with all the excitement we got goin on here are ya?”
He waved off Lori’s concern.
“I’ll take it slow, like the doctor said. I’ll stick to every other morning. I’ll still need you to be my hands and feet. This will be a huge story.” He smiled appreciatively.
Lori reached across the table and patted Jimmy’s hand. “No prob”, she said.
Addressing everyone JImmy said, “Let’s keep Brillo happy. Use quotes directly. No paraphrasing.”
Kevin asked, “Chip, what about all that expensive jewelry and robbery stuff that the Sergeant was concerned about?”
Chip’s shaved pallet was bouncing. “Me too,” he said, knowing where Kevin was going. “I asked him about that, but he gave me the Vader look and said to not get ahead of things.”
“Right.”
“He said keep it simple. Let people think she was robbed by some fuckin deadbeat. Leave Jonny out of the equation, as much as possible. I got the same fuckin quotes he gave the AP and Boston guys, but he gave us the trophy. Soon as we hit the stands, everybody, even CNN, if they mention she was killed with the trophy? They gotta quote the Worthboro fuckin Chronicle. At least for the remainder of today.”
“Nice,” Jimmy said.
“I know,” Chip said. “Told Brillo we appreciate it.”
Kevin said, “You’ve seen the crews outside on the common?”
Lori said, “Yeah, some got here just a couple hours after we heard. Beverly’s out there, by the way, if you wanna say hi.”
Kevin nodded and looked at Chip. “He say anything else? Brillo.”
Chip jerked his head to the side and motioned his hand like a karate chop.
“Said she was bludgeoned with the fuckin trophy, man. One of Jonny’s trophies. Brillo said they found it on the kitchen island. Fucker just set it there. Blood on the base of it. Sick fuck.”
Lori asked, “Anything else?”
“Said it appears he went through her purse, but then put everything back. Not a lot else to see. Guy definitely wore gloves, but we can’t print that.”
Jimmy said, “Lori, work with Marcia and get out on the street and see what people are talking about. Maybe get something out of that. Keep our local angle local.”
“Gotcha Jim-ster.”
Jimmy looked at Kevin. “You think you can reach Jonny?”
Kevin shrugged. “He’s probably gonna hole up with one of his sisters. I’ll reach out … at some point.”
***
The pickle room meeting broke and Kevin and Chip exited the building through the front entry.
Waited on the sidewalk for a respite in the traffic before crossing Main Street to the common, where the news vans were parked.
Beverly Swiss-Castro, just Beverly Swiss at the time, spent the first three years following college toiling at the Chronicle.
Small newspapers, inherently reliant on the newest (cheapest) member of the journalism family, are a popular landing pad for the college graduates hoping to pad resumes for better (higher paying) positions.
The Worthboro Chronicle, small in size but large in reputation, could afford to pick and choose from some of the more promising grads and Beverly had been a prize recruit.
A small town girl with big dreams from Bangor Maine, Beverly lasted three years in Worthboro before taking a position as a field reporter for a television station based in Providence, where her investigative skills continued to blossom.
Blond and beautiful, a hit in front of the camera, Beverly migrated south to spend a decade at the Miami Record, a stalwart of Florida southern coast journalism, where she met Victor Castro, a one-time Cuban refugee, who was also an outstanding journalist—but strictly from behind the lens of a camera.
Victor and Beverly fell madly in love and were married. Shortly after their first child, the pair moved to Boston, where Beverly became the lead investigative reporter at WCZB.
Motherhood had given Beverly’s blond, blue-eyed beauty a maternal glow and viewers had no choice but to love her.
Kevin knew she was currently (and secretly) entertaining an offer from a major cable network as the race for news dominance continued its seismic move in that direction.
Beverly was busy going over notes with her cameraman when Kevin and Chip crossed the street. She squealed and ran forward to throw her arms around Kevin.
Embarrassed but happy, he had no choice but to bend over and return the embrace.
“Kevin Dell,” Beverly said, “You and the girls still in that cute yellow cape on Locust Street?”
“Yes, our three monsters. And what about you and Carlos and little Maria?”
‘Hah! Little? Maria’s seven-years-old and already plays soccer and softball.”
Beverly quickly brought Kevin up to speed and when she went to say hello to Chip, he took the moment to look around, enjoying the sight of so many people on the common.
Being May and sunny, spring flowers had bloomed.
The presence of the news crews added to the festive feel. Groups of people lingered in proximity to the news vans, curious at how the presentations they watched on the six o’clock news came together.
Benches were occupied and folk drifted along the stone walkway.
There was the high-pitched scream from an over-excited child.
Kevin looked to see a toddler in a stroller pushed by an older couple. Probably grandparents. His gaze followed the walkway to a young man, brown skin, handsome, hair in a ponytail, wearing John Lennon sunglasses and standing by one of the large cement planters overflowing with flowers.
Kevin stared for a moment, not sure why, when Beverly grabbed his arm and asked, “So later on are you gentlemen gonna bring this girl to The House for a burger and a frappe or what?”