“Stop it,” said Debbie. “Just stop talking. I do not believe a word of it.”
But it was hard now not to put that together with Sulin’s story of Stan, sitting in the gutter last year, crying.
Mark raised his palms. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Debbie! Keep this to yourselves, but I have a theory about where he’s buried the body.”
Sulin said, “We’re not interested in your theory, Mark.”
“Under their court,” said Mark. “They had it resurfaced. Perfect place to hide a body. I told the police: Guys, you need to dig up that tennis court. I think they probably will. You heard it here first.”
“But, wait, they resurfaced it back in January—” began Debbie.
Mark barreled on. “Not only that. I saw Stan, covered in dust, bloodshot eyes, buying chocolate milk at the mini-mart down on Hastings Street two days after Joy went missing. I said, Stan, what happened to you? He ignored me. Literally ignored me as if I didn’t exist. Told the police about that too.”
“You think he buried her body and then went and bought himself a chocolate milk?” asked Sulin.
“That’s exactly what I think,” said Mark. “Burying a body is thirsty work!”
“That’s not funny,” said Debbie.
“It’s not funny, Debbie, it’s an absolute tragedy,” said Mark cheerfully. “I also told the police they should look into that son of theirs, the one driving about in the poser cars who supposedly makes all his money doing ‘online trading.’ He used to deal drugs. Know that for a fact because he sold them to my son.”
“Troy?” said Debbie. Troy had dated her daughter. She knew Troy had dated a lot of people’s daughters, but she still had a soft spot for him. “That was when he was a teenager, Mark, I think we’ve all moved on.”
“I told the police they needed to look at possible money laundering, maybe an international white-collar crime syndicate, who knows h
ow he makes all his money.”
“So, wait, now you’re saying you think Troy had something to do with his mother’s disappearance?” said Sulin.
“Anything is possible, ladies!” Mark shifted the racquet bag on his shoulder and sauntered off. “See you on the court!”
“Oh, fuck you, Mark Higbee,” said Sulin, and Debbie was fairly confident this was the first time that particular word had ever crossed her friend’s lips.
Chapter 32
“Do you reckon the husband had an affair?” asked Ethan.
He and Christina were walking from the car down the endless gravel driveway of a stately home to take a statement for their schoolboy arsonist case, but they were discussing, as they usually were these days, the Joy Delaney investigation.
“With this Savannah girl? It’s a possibility,” said Christina. “There’s a whole lot that family isn’t telling us.”
“Protecting their father?”
“I assume so,” said Christina. “Or protecting themselves.”
She did a mental lineup of the four Delaney children as potential suspects.
Amy Delaney: Skittish as a small-time criminal.
Logan Delaney: Calm as an experienced one.
Troy Delaney: Smooth as a slippery salesman. (Except Christina didn’t know what he was selling and she felt like maybe he didn’t know either.)
Brooke Delaney: Circumspect as a spy.
Could one or more of them be responsible for their mother’s disappearance? Or was it more likely that one of them aided and abetted their father?
“If my father had an affair with a young girl and then my mother went missing,” mused Ethan as they stepped onto an arched and columned portico fit for a prince or a poor, misunderstood little arsonist, and rang the doorbell, “I’d throw him straight under the bus.”