by Leslie Meier
Page expertly signed onto her Instagram account from my phone and scrolled back in her feed to Friday night. The photos from her friends, taken in the thick of the action, were even more horrible than their leftover mess had caused me to imagine. Kids in gory, scary-looking costumes swilled from big liquor bottles, no doubt the ones stolen from the Davies. They danced in the dining room, made out in the corners, and threw up on the lawn.
There were no photos of the actual moment Mrs. Zelisko fell from above. It must have happened too fast. The kids had been stunned, and then they’d run.
Lots of the photos were pretty dark. It was hard to make out faces. Squeezed in next to Page, I squinted at the screen, looking for a man in a navy sweater and khakis.
Then finally, she stopped scrolling. “Look!” She pointed to the edge of an image on her phone. “It’s him!”
“How can you tell?” Only about a quarter of the figure was visible. The sliver of his face we could see was in profile. His hair was the same medium brown as Howard Davies’s. The man in the photo gestured into the frame with a hand and an arm covered in a navy-blue sweater. One long khaki pant leg ended in a blue sock and brown loafer. Definitely not a kid, unless he’d come in costume as his father. I peered at what I could see of the man’s face. He did look older, out of his teens. But it was hard to be sure with so little visible.
We scrolled quickly after that, looking for better photos of the same man. We switched to the profile page of the girl who had taken the original photo. Nothing turned up anywhere.
“We need to tell Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn about this,” I told Page. “Maybe this girl has more photos on her phone she didn’t upload.”
“Okay.” Page was losing steam.
“Text the photo to me along with the name of the girl who took the picture, and I’ll send the info along to the detectives. They’ll probably want to talk to you again.”
“Sure.”
Page did as I asked, but seemed deflated. Whether she was worried about about talking to the detectives again or school in the morning, I couldn’t tell. I forwarded the text with a brief explanation to Binder and Flynn.
“I’m sorry all this happened,” I said.
Page looked even more miserable. “It was our fault. If we hadn’t texted those other girls . . . If there hadn’t been a party . . .”
“You didn’t murder Mrs. Zelisko.” I was firm.
“But if we hadn’t—”
“Aw, honey.” I hugged her. “I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Zelisko, but it’s clearer and clearer she wasn’t murdered by a kid at that party.”
Page sniffled and nodded into my shoulder. I hoped Binder and Flynn would get back to me soon. We needed to get this case solved.
Chapter Sixteen
I didn’t hear back from the detectives that night, but they were at Gus’s restaurant when I came down from my apartment the next morning. For months, I’d been scuttling in and out through the back door, but in the spirit of desensitizing myself to the restaurant, I walked boldly through it.
Gus, unusual for a restaurateur, was not a fan of out-of-towners. But the state-police detectives had eaten there frequently enough that they’d wormed their way into his good graces, such as they were.
Binder called to me. “Julia, join us!” They already had their food in front of them, Binder, a western omelet, Flynn, as always, two soft-boiled eggs. Gus had also provided Flynn with two pieces of heavily buttered white toast. Flynn wouldn’t eat it, but it came with the order, and Gus duly brought it. Flynn’s abstemious ways bugged Gus as much as they bugged Vee Snugg. The detectives would probably be finished before I got served, but I sat down anyway.
“Thanks for the photo,” Binder said. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and opened my text. He put on his reading glasses and squinted. “Not much to go on, but more than we had before.”
Flynn also had his phone out. “Unknown victim, unknown suspect. This case gets better and better.”
“We have an expert going through Mrs. Zelisko’s laptop, trying to figure out how much she stole, who she stole it from, and how she did it,” Binder said. “We sent the fabric we took from the chandelier to the lab. And we described what might have happened to the medical examiner. She’s going to let us know if the injuries to the body are consistent with that scenario. We’re making progress, but it feels like we’re not.”
“Too many possibilities,” Flynn said. “Was it someone Zelisko stole from here in town, or maybe in her past life? But since we don’t know anything about her past life, we don’t know who that might have been. And then there’s this guy.” Flynn tapped the photo on his phone.
“Page says she’s never seen him before, if that helps,” I offered.
“It would have been more helpful if she had,” Flynn groused.
* * *
After breakfast, I went back upstairs to my apartment. Flynn was right. We didn’t know who Mrs. Zelisko was. And we didn’t know where she’d come from.
Why had she stepped up the stealing four months ago? The answer had to be that the Davies had arrived in town and become her landlords. What about the Davies had scared her to the point that she started planning to run, if that was what she was doing? Howard worked at the oceanographic lab. Blair was an elementary school teacher. Talia was thirteen. They were the opposite of scary.
The most logical answer was it had something to do not with who the Davies were, but where they came from.
I got out my laptop and settled onto my couch for a good search. Luckily, Medview, Massachusetts, had a local paper, and the local paper had put ten years of its archives online. That seemed like a fruitful avenue. I paid a little money, and I was in.
First, I tried searching for “Zelisko,” though that was almost certainly not her name. “Embezzled” got me an article about a local manufacturing company whose treasurer had disappeared with millions. A compelling story, but not the one I was looking for. “Bookkeeper” got me a lot of links to old help-wanted ads.
I searched the edition for New Year’s Day, five years back. Everyone agreed Mrs. Zelisko had arrived in Busman’s Harbor around then. There was nothing of note in that day’s paper, so I scrolled one week back, to December 25.
The format of the online paper immediately changed. Rather than a fully searchable online version, the archives from five years earlier and before were images of the actual paper that had been digitized and put online. This format, which I could skim, might be more useful.
Even though the paper was weekly, that still left a lot of pages to go through. I figured if Mrs. Zelisko had disappeared from Busman’s Harbor, having stolen from a dozen town merchants, it would be a huge story in our Gazette. So I decided to read backward through the issues of the Medview paper, examining front pages only.
By the time I finished looking at three years’ worth, 150 front pages, I began to wonder if I was crazy. But I couldn’t think of what else to do. Page was hurting, as were Vanessa and Talia. Barry, Mr. Gordon, and Al Gleason were angry, confused, and scared. And somewhere out there, there was probably a family, maybe a distant one, that deserved to know that Mrs. Zelisko, or whatever her name was, was dead.
I stood and stretched, rolling my head around on my shoulders to release the tension in my neck. Downstairs, Gus’s was quiet, in the lull between breakfast and lunch. I got a glass of ice water from my kitchen and settled back onto the couch.
I was nine years back when I found it. A Mrs. Irene Chumley, who worked as a bookkeeper for many small businesses in Medview, had disappeared into the night, taking with her money that belonged to her clients and leaving them with a mountain of debt. Several former clients were quoted in the article—the owners of an appliance store, a shoe repair shop, a small dry-cleaning chain, and a delicatessen. None of those interviewed knew anything about Mrs. Chumley, except that she spoke with an Irish accent and was a devoted member and enthusiastic volunteer at St. Theresa’s Catholic church in Medview.
My heart hammered in my chest. Finally, progress. Irene Chumley and Helene Zelisko had to be the same woman. They had the same M.O.
Now that I’d spotted the front-page article, I scrolled forward in time, examining the inside pages of the paper. There were follow-up stories about Mrs. Chumley. The local police had coordinated with the FBI. Tragically, several of the businesses she’d stolen from had failed, including the appliance store and the shoe repair shop.
Hands shaking, I called Flynn.
He didn’t bother to say hello. “We’re about to talk to the Davies about that photo you found. Do you want to come along? They’re still at the Snuggles.”
“I’ll be right there. I have some information that may be helpful when you talk to them.”
* * *
Binder and Flynn were already inside when I arrived at the Snuggles Inn. The Davies’ bags, two carry-on-sized suitcases and a backpack, waited in the front hall. The family was packed and ready to go home.
Everyone was in the inn’s formal living room. The Davies sat on the antique couch. The detectives were seated in straight-backed chairs across from them. Vee and Fee hovered in the background, dying to know what was happening. There was a fire going in the hearth. Mackie snoozed on the oriental carpet.
Howard Davies held a photo in front of him, a blown-up version of the one I’d texted to the detectives. Blair and Talia sat on either side of him. All three squinted as he turned the photo from side to side.
“I don’t recognize him,” Howard said. “I can certainly see why someone would think it was me. We were dressed almost identically.”
Blair took the photo and brought it closer to her face. “He does look older. Too old to be at a teenage party, though I can’t really tell how old.”
“Talia, did you see this man at the party?” Binder asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Page saw him going up the stairs fifteen minutes or so before you both went up to find Mrs. Zelisko,” Binder said. “Does that help you remember?”
Talia shook her head. “No.”
I cleared my throat. “I think I know something about Mrs. Zelisko. She worked in your old hometown of Medview as a bookkeeper.” Binder and Flynn whipped their heads around to stare at me, but they didn’t stop me, so I continued. “She called herself Mrs. Irene Chumley. She disappeared nine years ago, after stealing from her clients. Several businesses closed due to their losses. Does any of this sound familiar?”
“Well, I’ll be.” Howard sat back on the couch, clearly surprised by the news.
“We didn’t live in Medview nine years ago,” Blair explained. “We were still living in Boston then. We moved to Medview for the schools when Talia started kindergarten.”
“You said you had a lot of visitors from Medview over the summer,” I said. “Could any of them have been victims of Mrs. Zelisko—or Chumley, as she was? Were any of your guests small-business owners?”
“I don’t think so.” Blair spoke slowly, thinking. “Our visitors were neighbors, fellow teachers, parents bringing friends of Talia’s.” She stopped. Her eyes opened wide. “Howard, what did Warren and Sue Littlefield do before they retired?”
Howard sat up straighter. “I think they owned an appliance store in town. They don’t talk about it. I gathered it ended badly.”
“When they visited, did the Littlefields see Mrs. Zelisko?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Blair said. “Yes. I remember it now. We were in our car, returning from the botanical garden. Mrs. Zelisko came down the front walk as we pulled into our driveway. I called out to her so I could introduce them, but she didn’t hear me.”
“Did the Littlefields see her?” Binder asked.
“I’m sure they did.” The memory was coming back to her. Blair’s words came out in a rush. “They asked about her. I explained she was our third-floor tenant. The strange thing was, Warren and Sue left soon afterward. I had thought they would stay for dinner. Warren said they didn’t like to drive after dark. It wouldn’t be dark for hours.”
“When was this?” Flynn asked.
“The end of June,” Blair said. “They were our first summer visitors.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but they’re not who you’re looking for.” Howard smiled a little. “They’re in their late seventies.”
The energy drained from the room like water from a bathtub when the plug was pulled. Flynn shut his notebook. “Probably not then.” We sat silently for a moment.
“Wait,” Howard said slowly. “I remember they had hoped their son would run the business after them. When it went belly-up, he went to work selling appliances in a big-box store.”
“How old is the Littlefields’ son?” Binder asked.
Chapter Seventeen
Two days later, I had coffee with Binder and Flynn at Gus’s. The Massachusetts State Police had picked up Peter Littlefield at Maine’s request, and the detectives had traveled the two hours south to interrogate him.
“He confessed instantly,” Flynn said before I sat down.
“He couldn’t wait to get it off his chest. He’d clearly been suffering since the night of the murder. I almost felt sorry for him,” Binder said. “Almost.”
“We interviewed the parents as well,” Flynn said. “Warren and Sue Littlefield recognized Mrs. Zelisko—or Mrs. Chumley, as they knew her—when they visited the Davies. They were stunned speechless, made their excuses, and left.”
Gus came over and took our order. Coffees for Binder and me, tepid water for Flynn. As always, Gus took Flynn’s dietary regime as a personal affront. “Drink something brown and strong, man,” he said. “Put some hair on that puny chest.”
Even while sitting, Flynn managed to puff out his anything-but-puny chest. “Doing fine in that department,” he said.
Binder waited for Gus to leave before he spoke. “On the way home from the Davies’ house, the Littlefields agreed to do nothing. They were sure they’d never see a penny of their money. Losing the business had been a horrible ordeal. They wanted the past to remain in the past.
“But as the weeks went by, Mrs. Littlefield worried Mrs. Zelisko might be at it again. She fretted about all the people who would be hurt. She was desperate to call the authorities. Mr. Littlefield absolutely refused. They reached an impasse. Last week, Mrs. Littlefield decided to confide in their son, Peter, and ask him to help persuade his father.”
“Telling Peter was a mistake.” Flynn picked up the tale. “He went home and stewed. He’d expected to take over his parents’ business. The store had been holding its own. The Littlefields had a reputation as people who really knew their stock, made great recommendations, and provided quality, timely installation and service. Peter saw a future where he’d make a nice living, be his own boss, and be a respected business owner in the community. He thought he was set.”
“Then it all ended,” Binder said. “He went to work in a big-box store selling the same appliances but for twelve dollars an hour.”
“The more he stewed, the angrier he got,” Flynn said. “On Halloween night, he worked himself up into a state where he was determined to confront the woman he believed, not without reason, had caused his unhappiness.”
Gus delivered the coffees, but not the despised glass of tepid water. Flynn would have to wait.
“Peter Littlefield swears he didn’t plan to kill her,” Binder continued when Gus turned and left without a word. “He wanted to talk to her, let her know what she’d done to his life. He thought it might get heated, but that was as far as it would go.”
“Laying the foundation to avoid a first-degree-murder charge.” Flynn was unimpressed by Littlefield’s claim.
“So it was a complete coincidence he showed up on Halloween?” I asked.
“He was shocked when he pulled up to the Davies’ house to discover there was a wild party in progress.” Binder said. “But then he thought it might be a good cover if he was going to be yelling at her. He had some idea he would force
her to return the money.
“He slipped into the house, which wasn’t hard, given what was going on, and went up the stairs. Mrs. Zelisko was in her living room in her nightclothes. The television was on full blast. She didn’t hear him come in. She seemed oblivious to the noise coming from downstairs. When he confronted her, she cut him dead, told him he’d never see a penny of the money she’d taken. She didn’t try to deny what she’d done. She was calm, disdainful. He said that’s what set him off. Before he knew it, he had strangled her.”
“That’s when Talia and Page came up the stairs toward the apartment, calling out for Mrs. Zelisko,” Flynn said. “Mrs. Zelisko had turned off the television when she and Littlefield started their conversation. He said he almost had a heart attack when he heard the girls coming. He dragged the body into the bathroom and locked the door. He heard Page try to open it.”
I shuddered, thinking how close my niece and her friend had come to a murderer. What would have happened if they had been able to open the bathroom door?
“The rest happened pretty much as you figured it,” Flynn said. “The girls left, and he was stuck in the bathroom with a body. He did try to Weekend-at-Bernie’s her. He wanted time to get as far away as possible. He tied the bedsheet around her and fireman-carried her out onto the landing. Mrs. Zelisko was tiny, but she was a dead weight. As he turned to close the apartment door behind him, he lost his footing, and she slipped off his shoulder and went over the low railing. He almost did, too. He watched in horror as she fell, got caught in the chandelier, and was swung over onto the staircase. He was sure he was done for.”
“But by the time he got downstairs,” Binder finished the story, “the house was empty. He picked her back up, slung her over his shoulder, and executed his original plan. He went out the back door and stuffed her in the shed. He was off the peninsula before Officer Howland discovered the body.”
“It almost worked.” Flynn shook his head. “He had no record, wasn’t in any system, and had no apparent connection to ‘Mrs. Zelisko.’ ”
