“I’m going shopping for groceries. Any ideas what the girls eat?”
“I made macaroni and cheese one night, and they asked for seconds.”
“White flour. Cheese. It’s a pattern.”
“Some children are born picky. Wendy was. You weren’t.”
We headed for the master suite, and I told her about the problems with the front door and asked her to suggest a locksmith.
“We have a handyman who takes care of all property repairs. He can install a new lock and take care of anything else you’ve noticed. I imagine Wendy just didn’t want to bother us.”
I did not roll my eyes, but they nearly crossed from the effort. “I’d appreciate that. It’s not safe the way it is.”
“We have groups who travel through about this time of year and leave town with more than they came with. Especially in places like Tropicana where so many snowbirds aren’t back yet. I’ll try to get him there this afternoon.”
We chatted until we got to the door. I waited outside until Dad was awake and propped up in bed. Then I scooped up the gift bag and went in to see him.
“Look who’s up.” I perched at his side and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Dale Gracey was a handsome man, with a full head of silver hair, tanned cheeks from hours at the golf course with clients, and eyes as dark as my own. Today, though, he looked pale and tired, with circles under his eyes and a new worry line in his forehead. I tried to remember how many times I’d seen him in pajamas. He had always been up and ready to start his day before six.
He seemed pleased to see me. “It’s great to see you, doodlebug.”
I took and squeezed his hand. “I hope you call me that until I’m ninety.”
“If I’m around when you’re ninety, I’ll be a medical miracle.”
I showed him the books, and as he rifled through them, he pretended interest. “I can’t wait to read these.”
“Until your heart is stronger, start with the least terrifying.”
He asked about Out in the Cold. I asked about his surgery, how he felt this morning and whether I could do anything for him other than visit every day.
We chatted some more, but he finally graduated to what was obviously most important. “I hear you’ve got the girls with you.”
My smile felt forced. “I took them to school this morning and met their teacher. They’re doing well.”
“When is Wendy coming back?”
I glanced up at Mom, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “I’ll let Mom tell you the whole story. But I’ve talked to her. She’s fine, just busy. She’ll get here when she can. Meanwhile I get to spend some time with my nieces.”
He looked too tired to question me further. He nodded, and I knew that was my signal to leave. After another quick kiss I left them together and headed for my car.
I’d bought myself a few days with my latest escalation of the Wendy story, but I knew that soon, I’d have to tell my mother the truth. If Wendy truly was a suspect in a murder case, then the authorities would, at the least, be calling my parents, if not showing up at their door. And what would they say?
I had very little time to figure out what was really going on. It was time to step up my game.
CHAPTER SIX
The grocery store closest to Wendy’s was huge, and by the time I’d filled my shopping cart, I was so hungry, I stopped in their café for a fast-food breakfast sandwich. I ate by a window, making lists on my smartphone of what to do next.
While my thumbs were flying I received a text from Sophie. Arizona’s a wash. Working on California. I rewarded her with a thumbs-up emoji, the adult version of smiling bunny stickers.
At the town house, putting groceries away was simple, since there was nothing to rearrange. I slid my purchases onto empty shelves, leaving chicken breasts at the front of the refrigerator, along with a bag of fresh green beans. Those belonged to tonight’s dinner, along with roasted new potatoes I’d stowed in the cupboard. No fool, I’d also bought bread and sliced cheese, in case of a munchkin riot.
With a mug of hot jasmine tea in hand, I started The Big Snoop in the great room. I’d already done a search for Wendy’s laptop last night, but the consolation prize would be a tablet or other device that synced calendar and contacts. I lifted cushions and slipped my hand into crevices hoping something might have ended up there.
When that proved futile, I collected all the papers piled throughout the downstairs and settled on one of the sofas. Since I’d already leafed through them, I wasn’t optimistic. Still, I took a closer look at each page, stacking the few utility and household bills in one pile, incidentals and clothing for Wendy and the girls in another. There might be little food in the cupboards, but there was obviously a fortune in clothing in their drawers and closets. Gracey Group paperwork went into a third pile, and I carefully went over each page for hints about Wendy’s western trip. As expected, if there’d been any related paperwork, she’d taken it with her.
The piles grew and multiplied. In the end I had half a dozen neat stacks and nothing to show for my time except a talent for organization. I placed them in an empty drawer in a desk in the corner, and while I was at it, searched the rest of the drawers. Next I went through the downstairs, fruitlessly searching the coat closet and the pockets of the jackets, checking behind and beside the television set, lifting everything I could. I was glad nobody was watching. The likelihood that anything related to Wendy’s trip would be hidden behind the television cable box was ludicrous.
Still, I checked.
After I’d searched every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, I made a turkey sandwich and took it out to the screened porch. For entertainment, a mockingbird serenaded me, practicing trills and the calls of other birds while I munched. I wondered if mockingbirds had calls of their own. Would anybody notice if they slipped in an original phrase?
The concert was solo, uninterrupted by human voices or even the hum of cars. While I wasn’t expecting a parade, I wondered how many people were actually in residence now. I decided to take a closer look. With half my lunch still uneaten, I dusted the crumbs from my hands and changed my shoes, locking the doors leading outside before I started my jog down the road.
Forty minutes later, after a healthy dose of Florida humidity, I still wasn’t sure. Even though many houses showed no obvious signs of life, cars might be in garages and shades or curtains drawn against the harsh sunlight. Using flowering potted plants, display flags and proliferating Christmas decorations as evidence, I estimated that no more than half the population of Tropicana was here at the moment. I wondered if my extroverted sister had felt lonely.
Inside the town house, the rest of my lunch and a shower revived me for the second phase of my snoopfest. The next place to search was Wendy’s room, temporarily my own. I’d saved it, hoping that by now I’d be ready for the more intimate details of her life. Unfortunately, electric bills and Holly’s spelling tests hadn’t prepared me.
The master bedroom had a small sundeck looking over the street and shading the front entrance below it. I saw no point in searching there. I piled my canvas bags in the middle of the bed so they would be out of the way, then I started with the nightstand, which had one drawer and a small cabinet with shelves below it. Nothing of interest graced the top. A landline, a small lamp, a pair of reading glasses in a green leather case. The drawer held nothing of interest except an unopened box of condoms, in preparation, I supposed, for when Bryce surfaced and came to Florida to see his family. I hoped one box would be enough.
Of course Wendy would have to come home for the condom supply to matter.
The cabinet held more tissues, a bottle of floral-scented hand cream and a few paperbacks that still looked new. Wendy was probably too exhausted by the time she got in bed to read. Did anything I’d seen so far have anything to do with her disappearance? I profoundly doubted it.
; The desk could have been a treasure trove, but it wasn’t. I did find a note from Holly’s teacher asking Wendy to come for a conference, and she’d probably planned to arrange that when she returned. At least she’d been informed.
I moved on to the closet. Wendy was neater in the confines of that small space than she was anywhere else in the house. In fact she was over the top. Her clothes were sorted by color. Black, navy and gray—formal and informal—were at the back, leading toward brighter colors in the middle and pastels nearest the folding closet door. I wondered if organizing so thoroughly made it easier to face each morning.
How much of Wendy’s life in this house was a reflection of that reality? The empty cupboards? The piled papers? The pizza menus? I’d never really given much thought to how difficult each day must be with Bryce away so much. I’d shrugged off her desire to move closer to our parents as a form of mooching. But having spent less than twenty-four hours with my nieces, I understood much better.
Guilt joined hands with worry. What had stopped me from offering to help if she needed me? Wendy had always seemed so competent, and confidence is a hard barrier to breach. Still, I should have seen past it. Now I wanted her to come back for any number of reasons, including a need to tell her so.
I searched every item in the closet, and even the purses were a dead end. Wendy had thoroughly emptied each one before relegating it to a shelf. Not even a breath mint or receipt remained. Afterward I got on my hands and knees and searched under the bed. As I got up again, the dresser mirror showed a woman in her late twenties, uncontrollable dark curls springing every which way and a face scrunched in distaste. Although normally I’m not unpleasant to look at, this was not a pretty sight.
I had planned to start with the substantial jewelry box, the only item on top of the dresser, but not surprisingly the box was locked, most likely against little fingers, since any thief worth his salt would simply carry it away. I hoped the key was inside one of the drawers.
Predictably, the top one held lingerie. My own holds the same, so it’s possible our mother passed on this tried-and-true feminine organizing tip. The similarity ended there. While I’m fond of cotton briefs and sports bras, my sister is apparently fond of skimpy. Skimpy bras, skimpy thongs, crotchless panties—no need to repeat skimpy there. Theoretically Wendy had twice as many bras and panties as I did, but they took up less than one-third the room. I wondered if the more utilitarian variety had traveled out west with her. Maybe this was the Bryce-Is-Home drawer. Or maybe Wendy just needed the reminder she was still feminine and sexy, even if her husband was at sea.
I thrust my hand down among the fluff and fancy, and separated items to see if anything was hidden there. No luck.
The second drawer held less exotic lingerie. The third was filled with T-shirts and yoga pants, shorts and bathing suits. The fourth contained a collection of beautiful filmy shawls in a variety of colors. Whenever she went out, Wendy battled air-conditioning with a shawl, so a new one was always a safe birthday gift from me.
I hit pay dirt behind the ones stacked on the right side and pulled out a cardboard box, which had probably held a necklace or earrings. Inside I found a key.
I skipped the bottom drawer in favor of the jewelry box and unlocked it. It was suede and carved wood, probably as expensive as some of the jewelry inside. Once opened I saw a mirrored lid, and a top shelf divided into segments, half with holes for earrings. Every segment was crowded with an assortment of silver jewelry, and every hole was filled.
Below the top were three drawers. Some compartments held gold pins or brooches, some gold bracelets. A door on each side had hooks for hanging necklaces with an elastic pocket below where they could pool.
Nothing I held to the light was fake or cheap. Wendy had always liked and collected jewelry, favoring expensive and classy over fun and funky. I wasn’t surprised at the amount she had brought to Florida. Like our mother, she wore jewelry every day. She was never embarrassed to be seen putting gas in her car wearing pearls or her birth stone sapphires.
Since I rarely bother with jewelry, I’m no expert. But I guessed that some of this was worth a great deal of money.
I closed and locked the box, and replaced the key where I’d found it. By now one thing seemed clear. My sister had planned to return. Disappearing for good had never been in the cards. If she’d planned to stay away, she would have taken her pearls, the diamond studs Bryce had given her on their tenth anniversary, the necklace with the emerald-cut amethyst surrounded by tiny sapphires and diamonds.
As I put everything back and prepared to leave, I realized I’d forgotten to check the bottom drawer. I pulled it out, expecting to find more clothing. Instead I found my sister staring back at me.
* * *
I didn’t have time to search the girls’ room, which wasn’t urgent anyway. After I finished searching Wendy’s, the handyman called to say he was on the way.
Dave was a little guy, several inches shorter than my five foot four but as solid as a retaining wall. Since he clearly knew his stuff, I gave him my list and made a few advance dinner preparations while he ran through the little jobs. After he took a good look at the front door, he called me out of the kitchen to consult.
“The doorknob is inoperable, and the dead bolt can’t be fixed.”
I dried my hands on a dish towel. “That’s what I told my mother.”
“I’ll replace them both, but while I’m at it, I can do the door out to the garage, too. It’s not in great shape, either. Same keys. That’ll make it easy for anybody living here.”
I figured we ought to go for broke. “Can you put a better lock on the glass door leading out to the screened porch?”
“That lock’s fine, but I can rekey it to match.”
This time while he worked, I trooped upstairs to avoid the grinding and banging. I had my sister to keep me company. The bottom drawer of Wendy’s dresser held two bulging scrapbooks filled with the minutiae of her life.
In the first, every school photo had been carefully preserved, along with candid photos of Wendy with friends, and one of her holding me. In that one, like the others, she was smiling, but she didn’t look happy. Who wants a living reminder that your parents are still having sex when you’re already starting college?
The array of photos showed a beautiful child growing into a radiant young woman. If she’d ever gone through an awkward or homely stage, pimples or buckteeth, the bad news had not been recorded. From page one until the end, Wendy was a poster child for good genes and parenting.
The second scrapbook contained every award, every newspaper article where her name had been mentioned, every recital program—be it dance, piano, or the middle school concert band where she’d played second chair flute. There were art projects, letters she’d written from summer camp and report cards. I expected to see baby teeth and fingernail clippings.
My mother had lovingly compiled every achievement of Wendy’s childhood and adolescence, a historical record of supremely happy and successful decades of my sister’s life.
As I closed the second book, I wondered if Mom, who had clearly reveled in Wendy’s popularity and accomplishments, had stood over a copy machine and replicated each of these pages for herself.
My second thought? Had she compiled even one scrapbook for me?
My childhood wasn’t exactly normal. By the time I came along, my parents should have been saying a fond goodbye to child rearing. The evidence in my lap concluded they’d done that first stint well, and it should have been enough. Wendy, the living proof, had exceeded all expectations. Then along had come Ryan Rose, whose premature birth in a foreign country had been such a trauma that I had started life with the wrong foot forward.
None of this was to say I had been unhappy, or that Mom and Dad had seemed unhappy to start all over again. What had been true? The majority of their parenting energy had gone into daughter number on
e, and daughter number two, the universe’s big surprise, had received the leftovers.
At times in my life I’ve considered being a leftover a bonus, but now, with Wendy’s senior photo smiling up at me from the cover of the thickest scrapbook, I wondered what it would have felt like to have this kind of attention showered on me. I really didn’t know.
Dave yelled up to tell me he was finished, and I saw it was almost time to walk over to the school with the form so I could pick up the girls. I replaced the memorabilia in the bottom drawer, thanked Dave who handed me keys and locked up after both of us.
The afternoon had progressed from warm to hot, and by the time I got there I wasn’t sorry to enter the hallowed halls and head straight for the office. Everyone was on the phone, so I took a seat, enveloped in nostalgia. I’d spent hours of my school days in an office much like this one, waiting for a reprimand. The nuns had liked me, but I had tried their patience.
When the administrator finally finished his phone call, he looked over the form and promised we were all set. “Would you like to peek into the first grade room while you wait? You can watch your niece. Noelle, right? That would be Mrs. English’s room, number six on the left.”
I started down the hall. The door to six was open, and when the teacher saw me, she motioned me inside. Noelle had been right about the hair as well as the name. This Mrs. English was an older woman, with lovely gray hair that shone with just the faintest tinge of blue. The children were sitting on a rug at her feet as she read a story about a cat named Ringtail who wanted to be a raccoon. I lounged beside the door and watched. Some of the children had turned as I entered, but not my niece. Her attention was riveted on the pictures in the book and the story.
To my surprise Noelle raised her hand, and the teacher recognized her. “That picture shows Ringtail chasing a butterfly. There’s no butterfly in the story.”
A Family of Strangers Page 6
