by Reagan Davis
My heart rate and my breath accelerate in unison as I reach into my beaded clutch and pull out my phone.
I put my purse under my arm and start scrolling through the photos on my phone, my hands shaking with excitement because I’m pretty sure I’m onto something.
“Is everything OK, Megan?” Eric asks softly.
I nod.
“Found it!” I announce.
I lay my phone on the yearbook next to Glen’s photo and handwritten message. I compare his handwriting in the yearbook to the handwriting I photographed from the love letter under Laura’s bed. I look at Eric.
“Laura and Glenda are named after their parents,” I say excitedly.
“Right,” Eric agrees.
“Laura is named after her mother,” I elaborate. “Brian’s mother is named, Lily. Laura and Lily both start with, L.”
“Yes, they do.” He nods, looking at me intently.
He looks worried, like I’m not making sense or something.
“The love letters under Laura’s bed aren’t from Brian to Laura,” I explain, shaking my head. “They were to Brian’s mother, Lily.”
“Possibly,” he says. “But if they are, then who’s B?”
I tell him what Connie just told me about Laura senior calling people by their blood type instead of their names. He’s nodding and I can see him making the same connections I am.
“Laura’s father, Glen, could be B, if his blood type is B,” I justify. “It makes sense.”
Eric nods.
He’s processing. He looks downwards and to his left, as I’ve noticed he often does when he’s working something out.
“So,” Eric says, “maybe Laura kept one of the letters out to show Brian as evidence that they might be siblings, and that’s why one letter from the stack was on the kitchen table the day Laura died. But why would Laura have the love letters that her dad wrote to a woman who isn’t her mother?”
“Who knows,” I reply, “maybe they were written but never sent? Maybe at some point, Laura senior confronted the other woman and got them from her? Maybe she broke into their house and stole them. I have no idea.” I shrug.
Who knows what kinds of crazy things happen between husbands and wives and best friends in these situations? I do know that this all happened in the days before DNA. Blood type evidence, along with those letters, may have been the only proof Laura senior had that her husband fathered a child with another woman.
Not just any other woman, her best friend. They would’ve been pregnant at the same time. I can’t imagine how Laura senior had felt when she figured all of this out. It must have turned her world upside down.
“Think about it,” I say. “If Glenda and I assumed the letters were from Brian to Laura, then anyone else who saw them would probably think the same thing. If Brian took that letter home, and Anne-Marie found it, she might have assumed it was from Brian to Laura too. She could easily have reached the wrong conclusion, like we did.”
I pick up my phone from the yearbook and do a quick web search. Eric waits patiently while I check three sites to confirm what I found at the first site is true.
“An AB and a B can’t make an O,” I say to Eric, shaking my head.
“Come again?”
I hand him my phone, open to a web page with a chart that illustrates how parents with blood Type AB and Type B cannot produce a child with Type O blood.
I tell him about the day I met Brian in the hospital after my fall. He told Connie and I he’s a universal donor which means he has Type O Negative blood. Brian confirmed a few minutes ago that his mom had Type AB blood, and his dad had Type B blood, so they couldn’t have produced a baby with Type O Negative blood.
Eric hands my phone back to me. We stand still, listening intently as Brian tells Connie, Archie, and Glenda that, according to Laura, her mother told her fifty years ago that Brian is her half-brother. She saw how close Brian and Laura were and worried their relationship might become romantic.
Brian assures them that he and Laura were best friends. He says they were more like brother and sister, which it turns out they actually were. He insists their relationship would never have become romantic.
He says when he and Laura reconciled their relationship, Laura told him she was never sure if her mother was telling the truth back then, or trying to keep Laura and Brian apart because she’d had a falling out with Brian’s mum.
“When Laura was cleaning out her mother’s belongings after her mother died, she found a stack of love letters to L from B and realized it might be true,” he tells Connie, Glenda, and Archie. “She thought L, who the letters were written to, was short for Lily, my mother, and B was Glen because her mum always called him B, in honour of his blood type.”
“See,” I whisper to Eric.
“So how did you and Laura start talking again?” Archie asks.
“She contacted me after my father died, to offer her condolences, and asked me to meet her. She told me when we met and brought the letters to show me. I asked her if I could keep one, and she said yes.”
He says they did a DNA test, to be sure before they told anyone else, but Laura died before she received the results.
He and Glenda are hoping to get to know each other and maybe meet each other’s families.
I move closer to Eric, and he lowers his head so I can speak into his ear.
“That day in the doctor’s office when Glenda was eight, Laura senior must have seen Brian’s blood type in his file and realized he can’t be Type O Negative with parents who are type AB and Type B. She knew about blood types, and she knew their blood types.”
“You’re right,” Eric says barely above a whisper, “but it wouldn’t have proven that her husband was Brian’s biological father. How did she make the leap from realizing Ernest couldn’t be Brian’s father, to assuming it must be her husband?”
“Intuition,” I speculate. “If she already had suspicions about her husband having an affair—sometimes women have intuition about these things—it might have been enough for her to confront him. Maybe when she confronted him, he admitted it, either to ease his conscience, or because his wife was worried about Brian and Laura having a romantic relationship. He wouldn’t have wanted his two children to be that close, so he would have had to admit it, even if it were only a possibility.”
I bite the inside of my mouth while I consider the possibilities. “Or, maybe she confronted Brian’s mum, Lily, and she admitted it. We may never know for sure.”
I tell him what Glenda told me about her parents’ relationship being tense for a long time after that day at the doctor’s office.
I hook my hand through the crook of Eric’s arm and lead him over to the condolence book at Laura’s memorial table.
I turn back to the previous page where Anne-Marie and I both signed. I reach into my purse, pull out the shopping list she dropped at the pharmacy, and open my phone to the photo of the sticky note in Laura’s kitchen. I lay all three handwriting samples on the table in a row.
“Look at the g’s,” I say.
Eric looks at the handwriting samples, then at me. He picks up my phone and presses it into my hand, then folds the shopping list and puts it in his breast pocket.
“I need to keep this,” he says, patting the pocket where he just put the shopping list.
We both turn and look toward the table with the Animal Shelter Roulette game where Anne-Marie was volunteering earlier in the evening. She’s not there. Mrs. Pearson is working the Animal Shelter Roulette game now.
We scan the room looking for Anne-Marie.
I don’t see her anywhere.
Eric and I look at each other.
“She’s gone,” we both say at the same time.
Chapter 21
Eric pulls out his phone and sends a quick text.
“Everyone is looking for her,” he says. “We’ll search every inch of the school.”
I watch his eyes scan the room again, and his gaze stops on PC Amy Andre
ws. He grabs my hand and leads me across the room to where she’s standing with Tundra and Craig.
“Andrews,” Eric says with an air of authority. “I know you’re not on duty tonight, but we need to locate a person of interest.”
Tundra must recognize the urgent tone in Eric’s voice because he sits up at attention.
“Yes, Detective Sergeant,” Amy says as she picks up Tundra’s leash.
“Who are we looking for?” she asks as she, Tundra, and Eric hustle across the floor, under the balloon archway, and out of the cafe-gym-itorium.
Craig and I look at each other. I shrug, he smiles and raises his eyebrows.
“If you’re going to see her again after tonight,” I advise him, “you’ll need to get used to it. This is the second time I’ve been left standing here since Thursday.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” He nods.
Craig offers to get us a drink. I thank him and watch him stride toward the bar.
“What’s happening, my dear?
Connie approaches me at a fast pace with Archie a few steps behind her.
“A police officer in a tuxedo just asked Brian if he has his car keys or if Anne-Marie has them. Then he asked Brian to go with him,” she explains worriedly.
“Do you know where Anne-Marie went?” I ask.
She looks toward the Animal Shelter Roulette table, then looks back at me.
“I have no idea. Is there a problem?”
“Maybe,” I say.
Without being too specific, I tell her Anne-Marie might have information about Laura’s murder, and Eric needs to speak with her but can’t find her.
Connie’s jaw drops and she inhales sharply.
“Does he think Anne-Marie might be in danger?” she asks.
He thinks Anne-Marie might be the danger.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “Where inside the school would she go if she wanted to hide or be alone?” I ask.
“Marla!”
Connie gets Mrs. Pearson’s attention and beckons her over to us.
Mrs. Pearson is asking someone to watch the table for her, but Connie doesn’t want to wait, so she grabs my hand and pulls me toward Mrs. Pearson until the three of us meet in the middle.
“Marla and Anne-Marie were best friends in school,” Connie explains to me, then turns to Mrs. Pearson. “Marla, what was Anne-Marie’s locker number?”
Smart thinking, Connie!
Mrs. Pearson’s eyes dart from left to right while she tries to recall the information.
“252,” she says. “In the bank of lockers just outside the science lab.”
I text Eric with Anne-Marie’s locker number.
“Marla, where else might Anne-Marie go if she wanted to hide or be alone inside the school?” Connie asks her.
“Why?” Mrs. Pearson asks. “Is something wrong?”
“Not if we can find her, Marla, now where would she go?
Connie is good at this!
“Well, the first time Brian kissed her was backstage at a school dance, so backstage, behind the curtain, maybe.”
I text this to Eric.
“She always wanted to be a nurse, so she spent a lot of time in the Nurse’s office, helping the nurse and asking questions.”
I text this to Eric too.
“She was on quite a few school teams, so maybe the girls’ change room?”
I text this to Eric.
“Now someone please tell me what’s going on!” Mrs. Pearson demands, visibly upset.
Connie and Archie each take an arm and guide her toward Craig who’s heading toward us with a drink in each hand. They intercept him; he hands both drinks to Archie and helps Connie to guide his mum to a chair where she can sit down.
Eric and another officer swoop into the cafe-gym-itorium and toward me.
“We haven’t found her,” he says. “We have to consider that she may have left the building.”
“It’s freezing out. She’s wearing a dress and high heels,” I say.
Eric nods. “And Brian has their car keys. Their car is still in the parking lot, and her coat is still at the coat check. She left in a hurry, either by choice or by force.”
He asks the officer next to him to contact Amy and find out if she has boots in her car, telling him that she can’t search through twelve inches of snow in open-toed shoes.
Hearing him mention twelve inches of snow reminds me of something the Sweeneys said when Eric and I were here on Thursday night.
“The bleachers!” I blurt out. “Remember? Brian told us he proposed to Anne-Marie at the bleachers in the field, after her graduation.”
“You’re brilliant.” He smiles at me, squeezes my shoulder, then turns and runs out of the cafe-gym-itorium and probably the school.
Chapter 22
I scan the room looking for April and Tamara. They’d want to know what’s happening. I don’t see them anywhere.
The crowd is thinner than it was earlier. All the police officers have left to find Anne-Marie. The reunion attendees, most of whom are older and tired from setting up for the event, have started to leave.
I see Dr. White, I mean Val, sitting with the mystery man. They’re deep in conversation and apparently oblivious to the commotion around them. I see Craig, Connie, Archie, and Mrs. Pearson sitting together off to the side of the action, and I see Adam speaking with Glenda near the bar.
Phillip walks past me.
“Phillip,” I call after him.
He turns and smiles.
“Have you seen April or Tamara?” I ask.
“Yes!” He says. “About fifteen minutes ago, they were at the coat check. I assume they were leaving.”
“Thank you,” I smile.
“Listen, rumour is, no one is allowed to exit the parking lot? Have you heard anything about that?” he asks. “I need to get back to Kevin. He won’t go to sleep if I’m not home.”
“Sort of,” I admit. “No one can find Anne-Marie Sweeney. The police are looking for her, so I guess they’ve locked down the parking lot.”
He says nothing, but his mouth forms a small letter o, and his eyes open wide.
I leave the cafe-gym-itorium and go to the makeshift coat check in the library next door.
I don’t have my ticket, it’s in Eric’s pocket, but the coat check volunteer knows me. She’s an occasional member of the knitting group that meets at Knitorious and, I’ve just learned, volunteers at the AC.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have my ticket,” I plead.
“No worries, Megan, I know who you are.” She smiles. “Do you see your coat?”
I nod and point to my coat.
“It’s the black, double breasted, camel hair, knee length, beside the emerald green faux fur,” I say. “There’s a lip balm in the right pocket and a black, merino-silk blend, lace-weight scarf shoved into one sleeve—just in case you need proof that it’s mine.”
“Here you go,” she says, handing me my coat.
I pull the scarf from the sleeve, and she asks if she can see it.
“Sure.” I hand her the scarf.
I put my coat on, button it up, and smear some lip balm on my lips while she inspects my scarf.
“I love this pattern,” she says as she hands the scarf back to me.
“Thanks,” I reply. “It’s called Wisp. I think it’s from Knitty in 2006.”
“Next time I’m at the store, I’ll look for a skein of yarn that matches my coat and cast it on.”
“Great! Have a good night,” I say as I wrap the scarf around my neck and walk toward the west doors that lead to the field and the bleachers.
Stepping out of the school and into the bitter cold, I wish I’d thought to put a pair of mitts in my pockets or purse before I left the house. I tuck my clutch purse under my arm and shove my hands in my coat pockets.
Eric wasn’t exaggerating. There’s at least twelve inches of snow on the field. The paved path that leads from the school to the bleachers has been shovelled and salted, so
that’s where I walk. There’s no way I’m stepping into snow that’s knee deep with nothing except a pair of stiletto heels and silk stockings for protection.
Walking along the shovelled path, I see a group of people surrounding the bleachers, most of them holding a flashlight aimed at the same section of the metal seats.
Getting closer, I see that they’re illuminating Anne-Marie, who’s standing in the centre of a row of bleachers, about halfway between the top and the bottom.
I get as close as I can, without breaching the human barricade of police officers surrounding her, and join the crowd of bystanders. I stand as close as I can to my fellow onlookers. Close proximity isn’t a choice, it’s a survival technique. The path is only about eighteen inches wide, and it’s at least minus fifteen with the windchill, so we need to huddle together and keep each other warm.
“An ambulance is on the way!” Someone yells from the snowy field.
“Why an ambulance?” I ask my fellow onlookers.
“She says she took something,” a man answers.
When he turns around, I realize it’s Mort Ackerman, the owner of the Mourning Glory Funeral Home.
“It won’t be long now!” Anne-Marie yells from the bleachers, “I took the rest of your father’s digoxin, well the rest that was left after I poisoned Laura Pingle.”
The crowd lets out a collective gasp. She just confessed!
“Anne-Marie, sweetheart, please come down and let us help you. Think of our boys! And our grand babies!” Brian pleads with her.
Brian seems to be standing with the police who are surrounding her.
I hear two deep, loud barks and see Amy and Tundra standing in the snow, Amy holding a flashlight.
I pull out my phone and text Craig.
Me: West doors, near the bleachers. Anne-Marie might need a doctor.
Craig: On my way.
“No, Brian! A life for a life,” Anne-Marie shouts.
When did she take the digoxin? How much time does she have?
“I’ve been so stupid!” She yells, then smacks her palm against her forehead. “I found that letter and assumed you wrote it to Laura. You’ve been spending so much time together at the Animal Centre.”
