by Kate Flora
Better soon than later, I figured, and dialed Jason’s number. I got a slightly slurred, “Hello?” followed by a loud “Oh no!” and then silence.
“Jason? It’s Thea Kozak. You left work in the middle of the day today. Do we have a problem?”
By way of confirmation, he hung up on me.
I called Suzanne and reported on what Lindsay had told me about Jason and his disappearance, and about Marlene’s crying jag, and left dealing with them in her capable hands.
Still no sign that Andre was coming in, so I went to my office and printed out my directions and boarding pass for tomorrow and went upstairs to pack. From the upstairs window, I could see the rear of a black car parked in Jessica’s driveway. Her note suggested she was gone, safely away, but I wondered where she could go. How she’d find another place, when the one she’d landed in was so marginal, and whether whoever the people looking for her were, they would find her again. I was very curious about the package she’d referred to, but I certainly wasn’t looking for that while the bully was still in the neighborhood. I could imagine myself trundling back from behind the barn, package in hand, just as the guy, or guys, decided to make another visit despite being warned off by Norah and Andre. No. I would leave the logistics of that operation to a professional.
On the way to my car to retrieve my new clothes and the berries, I stopped to say a proper hello to Norah. Earlier, as she was removing my intruder from the deck, we’d only exchanged nods.
“Hey, Thea,” she said with an admiring grin at the basketball. “So glad to see you like this.”
“Ha!” I said. “May it happen to you one day.”
Her grin got bigger, and she held out her left hand, which sported a beautiful marquise-cut diamond. “October 2nd,” she said. “A lakeside wedding. It better not rain.”
“Tommy Munro is a lucky guy,” I said.
Pleasantries attended to, I asked the essential question. “So who was that guy?”
“That is the question,” Andre agreed. “Yesterday he said he was on government business, looking for an important witness. Today he says he’s a PI from Boston and won’t say why he’s looking for someone named Jessica Whitlow.”
“Did he show you some ID, at least?”
“Sure,” Norah said. “Massachusetts P.I. license. We’ll check it out, but there’s something very wrong about the guy.”
“I hope you told him to stay away from here?”
“You bet,” Andre said. “Quite forcefully.”
“But he didn’t look adequately intimidated,” she said.
“I guess not. Looks like he’s back in Jessica’s driveway again,” I said. The thought of him right next door made my skin crawl.
I wanted to show Andre the note, and I figured Norah was in this, so she might as well see it, too. “I’ve got something to show you,” I said. “It was on the floor when I came in. A note from Jessica. I slipped it under the console so that bully wouldn’t see it. What’s his name, anyway?”
“Davenport,” Andre said. “Nathaniel Davenport.”
“Probably not his real name,” Norah added. She checked her watch, said she was off the clock, and yes, she would love a beer and anything else we might have to eat.
“Stay for supper,” Andre and I said together.
“Call Tommy, see if he can join us,” Andre added.
Norah did, and reported that he would be along in about half an hour.
I met Norah Kavanaugh during the horrible week when I was supposed to marry Andre and ended up working in a miserable restaurant in a Maine town dominated by a local militia, instead. They’d taken Andre hostage and I was trying to be a fly on the wall to gather information that might secure his release. I was probably being a damned fool to get involved. Andre’s boss was certain that I was. And Norah Kavanaugh was my contact to pass information back to the Maine state police.
It was a week I’d like to forget, and one of the horrible events was when Norah got in a gunfight with a young militia hothead. Both of them got shot. Norah survived. She’s one of the still too rare women in the MSP, and that means she’s had to be tougher than most of the guys. She’s got red hair and a temper to match, and now she was going to marry Tommy Munro, another MSP officer, and one of the few people I know who makes Andre look small.
In the kitchen, Andre got them both beers, and they bent over the note, reading it several times before Andre turned to me. “You get the package yet?”
I shook my head. “Not while that black car is in the neighborhood.”
“He’s still here?”
“Well, there’s some black car over there in the driveway of the cottage, and from what I can see, it looks more like an SUV than the little black Honda the blonde woman helping Jessica get settled drives.”
“I guess he took ‘stay away from here’ pretty literally,” Norah said.
“Let’s check it out,” Andre said, and the two of them headed out to find the package.
It felt funny to be the little woman, huddling inside while brave, tough cops went on a mission. But I’ve done my share of brave things, and I have the scars—on my body and on my soul—to prove it. It was challenging to be more careful, to be mindful that I was not in this alone, but I could embrace that challenge. I was, as Suzanne had put it, nesting.
I was fixing a tray of cheese, crackers, and other delicious nibbles—one form of nesting, for sure—when the thought hit me: what if this was some kind of trap? I had no idea what Jessica’s handwriting looked like. Nor any reason to believe she’d trust me with something of great importance. Why would she? We’d met a few times, shopped, and talked about babies. I rushed outside, crossed the lawn, and went around the side of the barn just as Andre straightened, holding a small cardboard box.
Eight
Andre carried the box inside and set it on the kitchen island. Then he stepped back and looked at me. “What do you think? Should we open it?”
“Jessica says we shouldn’t.”
He nodded. “But?”
“But if she really is in danger, I don’t see how we can help her if we don’t have any information. I don’t get why she left it for me, though.”
“Maybe you’re all she has?”
That was kind of heartbreaking.
He looked at Norah. He wasn’t hesitating because he was worried about opening the box, but because the note and box had come to me, so he wanted my buy-in. And Norah’s.
“Open it,” she said. Then, in what I hoped was an excess of caution, she said, “Thea, why don’t you go in the other room?”
I hesitated. I have a visceral reaction when cops, when anyone, tries to treat me like a mushroom. I decided that she knew I was as brave as a knight facing a dragon and this was deference to MOC. Also so that if the box blew up, there would be someone left to call for help. I stepped out into the hall and waited.
There was silence, a silence so total that I could hear the birds beginning their evening songs, before he said, “It’s okay. You can come back now.”
Norah had moved the tray of snacks over to the island, and was nibbling on cheese and salami as she watched him take a leather item from the box. An ID wallet. Norah and I leaned in as he opened it. A U.S. Marshals Service ID for a Jessica Whitlow.
I stared at the photograph. ID photos are notoriously awful, but they usually bear some resemblance to the people who carry them. It was definitely not a picture of the gorgeous dark-haired woman who’d knocked on my door. This was a picture of the woman our rude visitor said he was looking for, the one I’d seen my neighbor who called herself Jessica arguing with. The tough, slender, athletic-looking woman who hadn’t given her name when I introduced myself.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “That’s not the woman from across the street. I mean, the woman who introduced herself as Jessica. This is the woman who is supposedly helping her settle in. The one who helped us get the crib off the car. My Jessica—whatever her name is—didn’t seem to like this woman very much.”
> I told them about what appeared to be an argument that I’d seen through the window. About the comments my Jessica had made when we went shopping. Her frustration at being settled in such an unsuitable place. It wasn’t much. I said, “Let’s see what else is in the box.”
Under the ID wallet was a small packet of plastic items held together with a thick elastic. There was a driver’s license, a credit card, an ATM card, and a few other cards. The name on each of them was Charity Kinsman. Only the license had a photo, and that photo was definitely of the striking pregnant woman who had come to my door and identified herself as Jessica. The address was Austin, Texas. She was twenty-seven.
I stabbed the license photo. “This is the woman I had tea with. Went shopping with. Charity. The one I saw putting a trash bag into a gray Volvo with Virginia plates. There was another car, a black Honda, that I assumed belonged to the blonde woman.”
Andre and Norah exchanged looks. “Witness protection?” she said.
“But then why would Charity Kinsman keep this stuff around? Why would she have Jessica Whitlow’s ID? Why would the Marshals Service be stashing this woman in Maine? And if she is here under some form of protection, why was that private investigator, Nathaniel Davenport, able to find her?” Andre said. “Why was he looking for her?”
I thought there were too many whys and not enough answers.
“Too bad Nathaniel Davenport isn’t in the business of answering questions,” I said. “He might know. Though I expect it is pretty important that he not find Charity. Or Jessica.” Suddenly I had to sit down. “From what I saw, she’s more pregnant than I am. She shouldn’t have to be on the run and hiding from someone.”
It bothered me, imagining her holed up someplace even worse than that cottage. I hadn’t seen the inside, but she’d admitted it was awful and depressed her. She was pregnant. Away from the baby’s father. Just wanting her Amy to be safe. What if she went into labor? Was there anyone with her? Had the real Jessica, Jessica Whitlow, left with her? Or did she have someone she could call if she needed help? Maybe that’s why she’d knocked on my door. She was looking for another pregnant woman who could advise her about things in her new town. But if that was so, why had she suddenly fled without asking me any questions?
Once it got going, my imagination took off like a runaway horse. What if Whitlow had stashed her here and then gone off to do some other government business? What if Charity was here alone, trying to settle into someplace safe while waiting for her baby, and then Davenport and the other man showed up? Who was the other man? Those cowboy boots didn’t look like something a Boston PI would wear. Why was Charity Kinsman calling herself Jessica?
Too many questions and no way to get any answers. All I knew about the Marshals Service was from TV, so it probably wasn’t very accurate.
While Andre and Norah were engaged in their own speculations, speaking some kind of cop shorthand, I put a pan of Rosie’s lasagna in the oven and went out to the garden to get some lettuce and see if there was another ripe tomato and maybe a cucumber. I found both, and came back into the kitchen feeling like a very successful farmer. Tommy Munro had arrived while I was harvesting, and now he was having a beer, examining the contents of the box, and being brought up to date on the story.
We took the tray of munchies out to the deck, arranged our Adirondack chairs in a circle, and spent a pleasant hour getting caught up on state police gossip while ignoring the mystery of a pregnant woman and a miserable bully in a black SUV who might be looking for a U.S. Marshal. It was delightful, followed by an equally delightful dinner in our dining room. Norah and I set the table, putting blue placemats on the warm cherry table, and we settled in to eat salad, hot bread, and Rosie Florio’s lasagna.
Far too often, when I am in the company of Andre’s colleagues, or even Andre himself, meals are interrupted by peremptory summonses from their cell phones. Tonight their phones were blissfully quiet. I was the one who was called away, having totally forgotten I had a conference call about branding with a client school.
I may find the term “branding” repulsive, but in the competitive world of private schools, protecting a school’s individual niche and the things that are its particular selling points is important. The call went smoothly. It was so pleasant sitting in my little study with the murmur of conversation coming from another part of the house that when the call ended, I lingered a moment, taking pleasure in my lovely, if unfinished, house and the bucolic view out our back yard to the woods. At long last, we did have a place to call “home.”
Before I returned to the dining room, I went to the front of the house and looked across the street toward the little cottage. The black SUV was still there. Its presence bothered me. Not only because it was still there, but because I could swear I saw something dark on the ground beside it. Jacket, briefcase, trash bag? From here, I couldn’t tell.
I went out on the porch for a better view, but in the slanted evening light, I simply couldn’t see anything clearly. Seen from this angle, it looked like nothing more than a shadow. I didn’t want to interrupt the friendly conversation for something that was likely a trick of my imagination or of the light, but after dinner, maybe we would stroll over there and take a closer look. I was torn about doing so, though, since following my hunches has a tendency to result in bodies or other bad stuff.
Except for our occasional indulgence in rich, gooey chocolate cake, Andre and I don’t often eat dessert. I have a sweet tooth, but I’m trying to do more healthy eating in the interest of little fingers, toes, and brains and so I’ll have the energy to get through my days. Andre is happy to keep me company, although he has muttered some very negative things about kale. Kale rarely appears on our menu except as tenderly massaged kale in a salad. Tonight, though, would be an exception. Not to kale—why ruin a lovely evening?—but to the absence of dessert. The subversive and wonderful Rosie Florio had brought tiramisu. That delicious, creamy dessert must have a thousand calories per bite, so if I could get Norah and Tommy to eat some, they would save me from myself.
I have no idea how much a guy as big as Munro has to eat in day—probably a small ox, a dozen eggs, and a bushel of potatoes—all I could go on was the evidence of tonight. We’d started with a full pan of lasagna, the size that could easily feed eight. Now there was a single, lonely square left. The bread was gone. There were a few shreds of lettuce clinging to the salad bowl. When I suggested dessert, Tommy’s face lit up, and when I brought the pan of tiramisu to the table, there was an actual chorus of sighs. I’d have to share that with Rosie. She loves feeding people.
Once again, a pan of the heavenly stuff could have served eight. When we were done, there were only crumbs left. I decided I was going to have to get Rosie’s recipe. I could imagine that if I brought this in to work, I’d go right to the top of everyone’s favorite person lists. Food is the best kind of a bribe.
Thinking of work immediately made me anxious about the situation with our two new hires. I reminded myself that Suzanne was an exceptionally competent manager who could handle personnel glitches. I leaned back in my chair and smiled. Tiramisu was probably a mistake. MOC liked sugar way too much, meaning that the nightly acrobatics would likely start early and be very energetic. Worth it, though. It had been such a delicious meal, and we rarely had an opportunity to spend time with our friends.
Norah patted her stomach—a strong, gym-tight stomach—and said, “I’ve got to take it easy if I’m going to fit into my wedding dress.”
Tommy smiled a proprietary smile and said nothing.
Our companionable meal having ended without any of them receiving a phone call, I was reluctant to suggest a post-dinner perambulation to the cottage. I didn’t want to spoil a perfect evening. Turned out, I didn’t have to. Andre looked out, saw that the SUV was still there, and suggested they check it out. They, of course, meant the cops. But I am far from a shrinking violet, and figured MOC and I would be safe in the company of three of Maine’s finest. In the interes
t of preserving the peace, they let me come along.
I thought humoring me—and a walk in the long summer evening—was a smart move until the four of us came around the edge of that big row of hemlocks. Then the pleasant summer evening crashed and burned.
Nathaniel Davenport was sprawled on the ground beside his car, his head surrounded by a pool of blood. A large stone lay nearby. The state of his head made it clear that this was Davenport’s last case.
It was an “aha, the plot thickens” moment, but I had wanted the plot to thin, attenuate, die out. I had very much wanted the black SUV and that bully Davenport to depart, and the exotic Jessica, or Charity, to reappear. I have met few people in my life that I would wish to depart in a body bag. So much for the phones not ringing. We seemed to be able to find homicide practically on the doorstep.
The sight of three cops suddenly pulling out three phones and getting down to business might have been interesting, except that someone had died. Andre had established that by examining Davenport and checking his pulse. The black Honda was still there. The Volvo was gone. While they were attending to the process of summoning the necessary personnel to a crime scene, I worried that the attack on Davenport might mean something had happened to Jessica or Charity and there were more bodies inside the cottage.
No one noticed when I headed off in that direction. When I found the door standing open, the cheerful pot of calendulas kicked into the grass, I walked in, calling, “Jessica. Jessica. Are you here?”
No one answered.
I tried calling Charity. Still no answer.
My Jessica, or the woman who seemed to be named Charity Kinsman, wasn’t anywhere on the first floor, though pulled-out drawers and things spilled on the floor suggested either a hasty departure or that someone had been searching the place. The rooms were so dark and gloomy and poorly furnished, I wondered how Charity had planned to fix it up in time to welcome an infant to the place. There was effort in some bright quilts and pillows piled on the floor, ready to cover the furniture.
