Shatter Page 9

  I found myself smiling, just a little. I got out my own phone.

  “Carrie always says I should kiss someone,” I said. “Maybe a snowman would do. Say cheese.”

  Dad turned to me, shaking his head. I’d already snapped the picture of the ice cream on his face.

  Laughing, I texted it to Carrie as she spoke to Dad. Then I emailed it to her and sent it to her over Snapchat, just to mess with her. I couldn’t focus on their conversation, preparing myself instead to reveal my news to her. Dad gave me the phone a moment later.

  “I just got my period,” I told her.

  I could hear her breathing shallow and quick. She didn’t answer. A vague anxiety settled on me.

  “Carrie, I got my period.”

  “Oh.”

  “Carrie?”

  “Oh, well, that’s … that’s really good.” Her voice was finally starting to be animated.

  “Well, everybody gets it.”

  Something distracted her. “Um, sorry, I’ve … the union … we’re discussing some options. Rick Thornton is here. I have to go. Bye.”

  Once home, Dad found a website about puberty and then grilled steak because the article recommended iron-rich foods. I planned to stay awake that night and talk to Carrie once she was home. Instead, I drifted right to sleep.

  PRESENT DAY

  In the parking lot outside Dad’s grower meeting, I hang on to the memory of Carrie. She fought to be my supportive big sister even when she could barely focus on talking to me, and all that happened just one day before the union official Juan disappeared. Was she frightened? Did she know Juan was going to die?

  My thoughts keep coming. On May 22, Carrie celebrated her birthday with Slate. Slate said they ran into Cordero and a guy named Tito at Mission Plaza on the same night. On May 23, she spoke on the phone with me. But where was she on May 24 when Juan died? And when did Jeremy and McCoy see Cordero at Mission Plaza?

  I have to figure out a way to get information from Jeremy and McCoy. And anyone else who might know what Carrie was up to those nights.

  Come to think of it, Dad might remember something.

  His meeting should be over soon. I gather my things and hurry to meet him inside the pizza shop.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My muscles are sore from practice as I open the door to the restaurant where the growers hold their meetings. I enter alongside a man I recognize—Rick Thornton. He works for the Farm Workers Union and agreed to be an advisor for the Students for Strike club. Carrie adored him. He’s the union official she mentioned meeting with the night before Juan died.

  He holds the door open for me, his blond hair wild from cowlicks.

  “Thank you,” I mumble as I pass. Once inside, the smell of raw onions makes my eyes moisten.

  “No problem,” he answers. I don’t think he recognizes me. He’s one of the mock trial’s community leaders this year, but he hasn’t met with our team yet.

  I leave him and climb the stairs to the banquet hall.

  Dad is inside the dim room with two other men, a bearded man and a small, excitable man who feathers his hair back while he talks nonstop—my teacher, Mr. White. Dad talked about Mr. White once. Something about real estate prices dropping and how he planted thousands of peach trees anyway. If it’s true, he has debt payments on land he can’t sell and debt payments on trees he can’t harvest. The strike must be killing him.

  “… convinced the market just can’t pay that amount,” Mr. White is saying.

  Dad glances up at me, looking serious. “Salem, give us a minute.”

  Frustrated, I go back to the reception area where Rick Thornton is. I catch his eye and don’t know if I should say hello.

  “Ten more minutes for my pizza,” he says. His face is wide and dimpled. He’s got a laptop case over one shoulder.

  “I’m Carrie Jefferson’s little sister,” I answer.

  His smile plummets. “Of course. I should have recognized you. You and Carrie were the heart and soul of the club. Call me Rick. You’re what, sixteen now? Time flies.”

  I nod. Everyone knows he goes by Rick. He’s on school grounds a lot because part of his union job is to reach out to troubled teens as part of a gang-prevention unit sponsored by the police.

  Troubled teens …

  I glance at Rick.

  “Um, hey.” I clear my throat. “You knew Carrie. Did you hear about her car? It was tagged by this gang, the Primeros. I thought maybe it was because of something with the union, maybe something you knew about. She died right after.”

  With a glance at me, Rick shifts his feet, taking in the importance of my statement. “Hmm, that’s no good. You think she was hurt on purpose?”

  Rick hasn’t told me I’m crazy yet. It’s the best reaction I’ve had so far.

  I nod. “I don’t know. I just … wonder.” I’m not willing to go into details about how she hired gang members to work for her. Carrie respected Rick. I feel protective, like I can’t ruin his memory of her.

  “I just thought … you’re a union guy and people from the union have been hurt before,” I continue. “You met with her in May, the day before Juan died.”

  He frowns immediately, like he’s trying to remember. “I … I did?”

  “Yeah, she mentioned it while I was on the phone with her.” I’m disappointed he doesn’t remember. “Aren’t you frightened? Has anyone threatened you?”

  He takes a deep breath, half-laughing. “Well … yes, I’ve been threatened. Of course I’ve been threatened. Usually it’s hot air. But I can’t say Juan’s death hasn’t given me pause.”

  His face is sad, maybe even traumatized. He was probably friends with Juan, now that I think about it.

  After a moment, I say, “Um, I know Carrie worked with you on union stuff. While you talked to her, did she ever say anything about gangs maybe? Or Cordero Vasquez?”

  Rick’s face breaks into a smile. “Cordero? Did she know him?”

  “You know Cordero?”

  “Hey, now. You don’t have to make a face. I used to have him over to my house when he was fourteen, fifteen. My house is open to any troubled youth. Always has been, always will be. That place his mom rents a room in is infested with bad influences. These guys don’t want to be in gangs. Not really.”

  I’m knocked back a bit at the image of Cordero as a younger teen, seeking refuge. I thought Cordero liked hanging out with gang members just fine.

  “It’s hard for kids to resist gangs,” Rick continues. “It’s hard to accept that the things you were taught growing up, the people who taught you, were wrong.”

  Footsteps sound in the stairwell to our left.

  The bearded man from Dad’s meeting rounds the corner and appears in front of us. Other growers are behind him, their voices approaching rapidly.

  “… in our counterstrike to the union rally next Saturday,” Mr. White is saying. “Same time, same place.”

  “I might go back to the counter and order another lemonade,” the bearded man calls in answer.

  “A lemonade with extra ice,” Dad adds once in view.

  When Mr. White sees us, he looks from Dad to the bearded man, like he’s fidgeting. He laughs too loudly. “Ice. Yes, it’s hot today.”

  Neither one answers. Almost like all three men are trying to ignore Mr. White’s original comment. Trying to bury it so it won’t be noticed. What was it? Something about a rally? A counterstrike.

  “So this is where you hold your secret meetings?” Rick asks, approaching the men. “I wasn’t even sure they were real.”

  I turn to look at him. Rick is a union guy. He’s surrounded by a bunch of growers. His cheeks are red, like his blood is fifty degrees hotter than it was earlier.

  “Salem?” Dad looks between Rick and me. “You’ve been talking to Rick?”

  Rick answers before I can. “I’m not going to take it out on your daughter.”

  Dad steps like he’s going to pass Rick, but Rick puffs his chest out so they collid
e.

  “Hey!” Rick’s hands are fisted, arms cocked. He’s muscular and young.

  Dad backs up, but I can tell he’s furious.

  “What the heck?” I ask. A bunch of men acting like schoolboys.

  “Now, Rick,” the bearded man says, putting a hand on Rick’s elbow. The man is tall and has an aura of leadership about him. I’ve seen him before.

  Dad takes my arm. “Let’s go.”

  Rick shakes off the bearded man’s hand. He could take a swing at him, but apparently his issue with Dad is personal. He glares at my father. “Say hi to Elena for me.”

  I search my brain for the name. It sounds familiar. “What’s going on? Who’s Elena?”

  “My wife.” Rick is quick with his words and their underlying implication.

  “His ex-wife.” Dad is utterly calm. Nothing ruffles him. “We’re meeting—”

  “Give me a break!” Rick interrupts.

  “—to talk about the strike,” Dad continues. I watch his reaction closely. Everything from his round glasses to the pencils in his shirt pockets is scholarly. I relax. Dad would never date a married woman.

  “An interview she shouldn’t even be having. This strike!” Rick says, not addressing Dad anymore but the bearded man. “These migrant kids have nowhere to go. Their parents work to death. No wonder the kids fall into gangs. We’re not helping them, keeping wages so low. We were just talking about a perfect example of this!”

  He gestures toward me and then stalks out the front door, still without his pizza. None of the men’s conversation makes any sense. Mr. White and the bearded man aren’t shocked on Dad’s behalf. They’re not acting like Rick is jealous and prone to overreacting.

  As soon as Rick leaves, Mr. White laces his fingers and looks at me. “We haven’t even told you the good news, Salem. We remembered your dad’s alibi.”

  “Alibi?” I spin to face Dad. The police wanted his alibi? I guess I should have expected that, but it’s still unsettling.

  He nods. “The police want to know where I was on the night Juan Herrera died. There was a grower’s meeting in the early evening, but we’re not sure how long it went, and I need an alibi until eight.”

  “Oh.” I had envisioned the murder happening late at night. “Juan was … was dead by eight, then.”

  Dad shrugs, not unkindly. “That’s what Officer Haynes says. I figure they’re basing the time of death on when they found Juan’s car, which was soon after that. Fortunately, after the grower’s meeting, we stayed for pizza until 9:30. Thank heaven.”

  “Good pizza, if I remember right,” the bearded man puts in. He has a full head of hair, wrinkles around his eyes, and a tie. “I myself had four or five slices.” He extends his palm to me. “Bill Knockwurst.”

  “The mayor,” I say, shaking his hand. I knew I recognized him. Carrie got her picture taken with him once for the Verona Bulletin. “You’re AddyDay’s stepfather.”

  He beams. “That I am.”

  Mr. White laces his fingers. “Good thing we finally remembered what we did during that May meeting. The recording of it is lost.”

  Confused, I look to Dad.

  “The union official was there that night,” he explains. “He records our negotiations.”

  I frown. “But Rick is the local union official.”

  Dad nods.

  “Wait, so Rick lost the recording?” I ask, pointing at the door. “Rick Thornton?”

  As I say his name, my memory triggers.

  Rick Thornton. His wife, Elena—Elena Thornton. She’s the journalist who brushed her fingers against Dad’s wrist when the corpse was found. The article I read of hers mentioned Rick specifically. His home has suffered three attempted burglaries recently. I’m surprised I didn’t notice at the time that their last names were the same.

  So Dad and Elena are having an affair. But wait, I thought I didn’t believe he was having an affair. I don’t believe it, right?

  Dad starts toward the door.

  I hurry after him. “And Rick Thornton—who thinks you’re having an affair with his wife—just happens to lose the recording verifying your alibi during a murder?”

  We go outside into scorching air, Mr. White and the mayor following. I squint against the sunlight and look for Rick. He’s gone.

  Dad shields his eyes. “Apparently. We’re the Peach Growers Association, Salem. Not the Supreme Court.”

  “He hates you,” I say, noticing Dad’s lack of comment on Elena. “Is there any evidence the recording was deleted? SD cards show stuff like that.”

  Mr. White stays on the sidewalk of the strip mall next to us. “They use a tape recorder.”

  I pause. “It’s not … digital? Those things still work?”

  The mayor smiles at Dad. “They do such a good job of making us feel old, don’t they?”

  Dad takes a breath, soaking in the heat of late summer like he’s spent days realizing what freedom really means. “Rick lost the tape. Or maybe he never recorded the meeting in the first place. It happens.”

  We say goodbye to Mr. White and the mayor. Once inside the car, Dad sits lost in thought, thumb tapping the steering wheel. There’s something about him suggesting that for all his relief, he feels guilty.

  My suspicions whirl.

  “Are the Thorntons divorced or not?” I ask.

  Dad drives. The gravel crunches under the tires. “Salem, I’m not dating Elena.”

  “Are they divorced?”

  The turn signal clicks off. “Rick won’t sign the papers.”

  “And you and her—”

  “Are not dating.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “Have never gone out, met for lunch, or exchanged birthday presents.”

  “I meant you and her are meeting to talk about the strike.”

  “We’re having dinner, but don’t think she won’t grill me. She’s a journalist for one. Two, she and Rick don’t agree on much, but they both want the strike to work.”

  “Mmph,” I say.

  Rick works for the union, so of course he wants the strike to work. But he does more than work for the union. He volunteers time at Verona High and pays attention to troubled teens and opens his house to gang members who want to change. He’s dedicated, the way Carrie was. He believes.

  Dad takes a breath. “This wasn’t the way I was going to tell you.”

  I glance at him. “So it is a date.”

  He drives past the last stoplight and into the orchard-lined section of country road.

  “If you were going to tell me, then it’s a date.” I don’t know how to react.

  “Can you get your own dinner?” Dad asks, tapping the steering wheel again. “I’m meeting Elena at six.”

  “You’re nervous to see her?” I’m incredulous.

  “It’s that bad?” He clears his throat, making his nerves show even more.

  “Stop it.”

  “But the way you’re coaching me is so helpful.” He pats his hair in the back. “It’s not sticking up, is it?”

  I realize he’s acting nervous to make fun of me.

  “Dad,” I complain.

  “What?” He laughs at me.

  “Well … Rick’s a lot younger than you. You need to date somebody old—old enough for you.”

  “Elena’s thirty. Is that old enough?”

  I do some calculations in my head. “If she were twenty-nine, she’d split our ages exactly,” I say, horrified.

  “Good thing she’s thirty.”

  “Dad! Anyway, there’s something wrong with her if she left Rick.” Why would anyone leave a person who’s like Carrie? “Did you know she wrote in one of her articles that someone is always trying to break into Rick’s house?”

  “Her house now. The break-ins are because he used to leave it open to gang members, which was such a great idea,” Dad says sarcastically. “He lives in town now that he and Elena have split, but the old house is near us, just east of the Knockwursts’ property. Supposedly, Rick
’s trying to transfer the, uh, safe house to his new place, but some gang members haven’t gotten the message. Elena has a security system now that she lives alone.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m glad you remembered your alibi,” I say, circling back to why I wanted to talk to Dad in the first place. “Before I even talked to you, I was thinking we should go over what Carrie was doing around the time Juan died too. In case the police need it, like … in case it helps them decide if Carrie’s death was an accident.” I speak cautiously.

  Dad’s jaw tightens. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” He doesn’t appear to think it’ll help, either.

  “Well, Juan died on Friday, May 24. The Wednesday before that, she and Slate went to dinner, for a late celebration of her birthday. On Thursday, you picked me up at track practice because I … I got my period. When I talked to her Thursday night, she seemed really worried. Do you know why?”

  Dad thinks. He shakes his head. “It was so long ago.”

  “Any idea what she was doing Friday while you were at the peach meeting?” I ask.

  He blows air out of his mouth. “I don’t remember.” He looks at me. “You don’t remember?”

  I pause. I hadn’t really thought through the night after I got my period. Me on a Friday night?

  “I had weight lifting for track from 5:30 to 7:00. Then I went home, I guess … did homework—wait, there was one day … that’s probably it. One time I watched Casablanca right after practice. I bet it was a Friday. I … actually, I watched it twice.”

  I would never fess up to something like that under normal circumstances. I was alone and feeling sorry for myself. Alone and blissfully ignorant that Juan Herrera was beaten to death in our orchard. If I had ever looked out our sliding glass door that night toward the orchard, would I have seen anyone—like a gang member or Carrie or a union official living his last day?

  “You watched a movie twice through and Carrie and I didn’t come home in all that time?” Dad asks.

  I nod.

  “I guess she didn’t see a murder after all,” Dad says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Police found Juan’s car at eight thirty that night, remember? They think the murder was done by eight. If Carrie didn’t get home until late, there was nothing to see.”