by Lisa Gardner
“I…Well, I don’t know. I certainly never told him. I never spoke to your father again after that last phone call. Which, come to think of it, does seem strange. But with everything that happened that November, we weren’t really thinking about you and your family anymore; we were too busy trying to save ours. Dori’s disappearance was on the news, however. For the first few days in particular, when the volunteers were pouring in and the police were launching round-the-clock searches. I don’t know if your parents saw the story or not. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.”
“Annabelle?”
I couldn’t look at her anymore. I hadn’t come to say this. I didn’t mean to say this. I was supposed to be doing reconnaissance, mining Mrs. Petracelli for information about Dori’s disappearance, preparing myself for the war ahead. But sitting in this cheery yellow kitchen, I couldn’t do it anymore. I knew when she looked at me, she saw her daughter, the little girl who’d never gotten to grow up. And I know when I looked at her, I saw my mother, the woman who’d never gotten to grow old. We had both lost too much.
“I gave Dori the locket,” I blurted out. “It was one of the gifts. One of the things he left me. My father told me to throw it away. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I gave it to Dori.”
Mrs. Petracelli didn’t say anything right away. She pushed back her chair, stood up, started clearing the dishes from the table.
“Annabelle, do you think my daughter was killed because of some silly locket?”
“Maybe.”
She took my coffee cup, then her own. She set them carefully, as if they were very fragile, in the sink. When she returned, she bent, placed her hand on my shoulder, and enveloped me with the soft scent of lavender.
“You did not kill my daughter, Annabelle. You were her best friend. You brought her immeasurable joy. Truth is, none of us control how much time we have here on earth. We can only control the life we lead while we have it. Dori led a loving, gracious, joyful existence. I think of that every morning when I wake up, and I think of it every night before I go to bed. My daughter had seven years of love. That’s a greater gift than some people ever get. And you were part of that gift, Annabelle. I thank you for that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Shhhh…”
“You are so brave….”
“I’m playing the hand I was dealt,” Mrs. Petracelli said. “Bravery has nothing to do with it. Annabelle, I am enjoying speaking with you. It’s not often I get to talk to someone who knew Dori. She disappeared so young, and it was so long ago…. But it is time, dear. I have my meeting.”
“Of course, of course.” I belatedly scooted back my chair, let Mrs. Petracelli escort me to the door. Halfway across the family room, I looked up to see Mr. Petracelli coming down the stairs, dressed in dark chinos, a blue-checkered dress shirt, and a deep blue sweater-vest. He took one look at me, did an abrupt about-face, and headed back up the stairs, empty coffee cup dangling from his fingertips.
I glanced at Mrs. Petracelli, saw the strain of her lie regarding her husband stamped in the lines on her face. I didn’t say a word, just squeezed her hand.
At the door, however, one last thing occurred to me. “Mrs. Petracelli,” I asked, “do you think I could get a picture?”
THE PHOENIX INTERNATIONAL Airport was a sea of white Bermuda shorts, broad straw hats, and red-flip-flop-wearing humanity. We dodged families, business travelers, and youth groups, trailing our carry-on luggage through an endlessly long terminal. My memory of Arizona was bright Southwest colors, dancing green kokopelli dolls, red terra-cotta pots.
Apparently, no one had told the airport designers that. This terminal, at least, was decorated in morose shades of gray. Taking the escalator downstairs was even more depressing. Dark concrete walls gave the entire space the feeling of a dungeon.
None of it improved my state of mind. Run, I kept thinking. Run while you still have the chance.
I’d barely made it back to my apartment from the Petracelli home when Detective Dodge showed up. I made him wait downstairs while I frantically tossed items in my overnight bag. Then I broke the news that we’d need to drop Bella off at the vet’s on the way to the airport. He didn’t seem to mind, taking my bag, opening the car’s back door for my enthusiastic dog.
“Why don’t you call me Bobby,” he said on the way to the vet’s. We dropped off Bella—who gave me a last devastated look before the vet’s assistant led her away—then continued on our way.
At the airport, D.D. was waiting at the terminal with her usual grim expression.
“Annabelle,” she acknowledged curtly.
“D.D.,” I shot back. She didn’t blink an eye at the familiarity.
Apparently, we were one big happy family. Until we boarded the plane. D.D. opened her briefcase, fanned out an assortment of files, and got to work. Bobby wasn’t any better. Had his own files, pen, plus a propensity to mutter.
I read People cover to cover, then studied the Sky Mall’s choices for pet products. Maybe if I bought Bella her very own drinking fountain, she’d forgive me for boarding her.
Mostly, I tried to keep myself busy.
I’d never flown before. My father didn’t believe in it. “Too expensive,” he’d say. Too dangerous is what he really meant. Flying involved buying tickets, and tickets could be traced. Instead, he relied on old clunker automobiles purchased with cash. Whenever we left town, we’d stop at some salvage yard along the way. Bye-bye, family automobile. Hello, new bucket of rust.
Needless to say, some of these cars proved more reliable than others. My father became an expert at repairing brakes, replacing radiators, and duct-taping various windows, doors, bumpers. It amazed me now that I’d never wondered before how an overeducated mathematician became so good with his hands. Necessity is the mother of invention? Or maybe I simply didn’t want to know all the things I didn’t want to know.
For example, if a moving van had packed up our old house, why had I never seen any of my childhood furniture again?
WE’D FINALLY REACHED the airport exit. Thick, smoked-glass doors parted. We stepped into the enveloping heat. Immediately, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform headed toward us, bearing a white placard with Bobby’s name.
“What’s this?” D.D. demanded to know, blocking the chauffeur’s path.
The man stopped. “Detective Dodge? Sergeant Warren? If you would please follow me.” He gestured behind him, where a sleek black limo was parked across the way, at the median strip.
“Who arranged this?” D.D. asked in the same clipped tone.
“Mrs. Catherine Gagnon, of course. May I help you with your bag?”
“No. Absolutely not. Not possible.” D.D. turned back toward Bobby, stating in a vehement undertone: “Department regs specifically state that officers may not accept free goods or services. This is clearly a service.”
“I’m not a police officer,” I offered.
“You,” she said flatly, “are with us.”
D.D. resumed walking. Bobby fell in step behind her. Not knowing what else to do, I gave the perplexed chauffeur a last apologetic shrug, then trailed in their wake.
We had to wait twenty minutes for a taxi. Enough time for the sweat to build up under my armpits and trickle down my spine. Enough time for me to remember that my New England family had only made it nine months in Phoenix before fleeing to a cooler climate.
Once in the taxi, D.D. provided an address in Scottsdale. I started to put the pieces together. Former Back Bay resident, now living in Scottsdale, with a penchant for sending limos. Catherine Gagnon was rich.
I wondered if she needed any window treatments done, then had to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a hysterical giggle. I wasn’t doing very well anymore. Blame it on the heat, the company, the sensory overload of my first plane ride. I could feel tension knotting in my belly. The growing tremors in my hand.
Everyone wanted me to meet this woman, but no one was really telling me why. I’d al
ready said that I’d never heard of Catherine Gagnon. Yet the city of Boston was still willing to pick up the check for two detectives and one civilian to fly five thousand miles round-trip and overnight in Phoenix. What did Bobby and D.D. know that I didn’t? And if I was so smart, why did I already feel like a pawn of the BPD?
I pressed my forehead against the warm glass of the window. I wished desperately for a glass of water. When I looked up again, Bobby was watching me with an inscrutable expression. I turned away.
The cab made a left. Weaved in and out of dusty, purple-hued hills. We passed towering saguaros, silver creosote bushes, red-tipped barrel cacti. My mother and I had been so intrigued when we’d first moved here. But we’d never adapted. The landscape always felt like someone else’s home. We were too used to snow-capped mountains, dense green woods, and granite gray cliffs. We never knew what to make of this terrible, alien beauty.
The cab came to a long whitewashed stucco wall. Black wrought-iron gates appeared on our right. The cab slowed, turned toward the gates, and found a speaker mounted on the outer wall.
“Say Sergeant D.D. Warren is here,” D.D. instructed.
The cabbie did as he was told. The elaborately swirling gates swung open and we entered a shaded green wonderland. I saw an acre of perfectly manicured lawn, lined by broad-leafed trees. We followed the winding road to a circular drive, where a tiled fountain bubbled amidst a carpet of flowers. Which set the stage perfectly for the enormous Spanish Mission–style house that unfolded in front of us.
To the left: towering windows framed in dark mahogany beams, set in thick adobe walls. To the right: more of the same, except this side also included a glass atrium and what I guessed was an indoor pool.
“Holy mother of God,” I murmured, and to my deep shame, really was curious if the mysterious Mrs. Gagnon might need any window treatments. The size and scope of the windows here. The challenge. The money…
“Back Bay dollars go far in Arizona,” Bobby said lightly.
D.D. just took in the whole thing with a tight look on her face.
She paid the driver, asked for a receipt. We trudged up the long, sinuous walk to a pair of massive dark walnut doors. Bobby did the honors of knocking. D.D. and I clustered behind him, clutching our luggage like self-conscious guests.
“What do you think it costs to water this lawn?” I started to babble. “I bet she spends more on her grounds crew each month than I do on rent. Did she ever remarry?”
The right-side door opened. We were confronted by a matronly Hispanic woman with iron gray hair, a short stocky figure, and drab taste in housecoats.
“Sergeant Warren, Detective Dodge, Señorita Nelson? Please, come in. Señora Gagnon will see you in the library.”
She took our luggage, asked if we required refreshment after our long trip. We all moved on autopilot, surrendering our belongings, assuring her we were fine, then following her lead from the vaulted foyer into the mansion.
We walked down a broad, creamy white hallway, walls periodically inlaid with quartets of Mexican tile. Dark exposed beams supported a twelve-foot-high ceiling. More thick planks formed the flooring beneath our feet.
We passed an atrium, an indoor pool, a fine collection of antiques. If the outside of the house made the point, the interior added an exclamation point: For Catherine Gagnon, money was no object.
Just as I wondered how long one hallway could be, the housekeeper turned to the left and paused in front of a pair of heavy walnut doors. The library, I presumed.
The housekeeper knocked.
“You may enter,” a muffled voice replied.
The doors parted and I caught my first glimpse of the infamous Catherine Gagnon.
CATHERINE STOOD IN front of a sun-drenched expanse of windows. The bright backlight obscured her features, revealing only a slender silhouette with long dark hair. I noted thin arms, crossed at her stomach. Jutting hip bones, protruding beneath the panels of a long peasant skirt. Rounded shoulders displayed by a sleeveless, chocolate-brown wrapped shirt, tied at her waist.
I glanced at Bobby. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at Catherine. In contrast, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, her fingers caressing her bare forearm as if she could already feel her fingers splayed across his chest. The tension in the room was palpable and no one had said a word.
“Catherine,” Bobby acknowledged finally, coming to a halt well back. “Thanks for seeing us.”
“A promise is a promise.” Her gaze flickered briefly to me, but didn’t linger. “I trust you had a good flight.”
“No complaints. How is Nathan?”
“Excellent, thank you. Attending a very fine private school. I have many hopes for him.” She was smiling now, a knowing look on her face as Bobby continued to hang back and she continued to stroke her arm. She finally turned to D.D.
“Sergeant Warren.” Her voice chilled ten degrees.
“Long time no see,” D.D. commented.
“And yet, not long enough.”
Her gaze returned to me, if only to make a point of dismissing D.D. This time, she regarded me thoughtfully, eyes going from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet and back again. I held up under the scrutiny, but I was acutely aware of my cheap cotton top, my fraying jeans, my ratty shoulder bag. I worked two jobs to cover my rent as it was. Haircuts, manicures, fancy clothes. Those were luxuries meant for a woman of leisure like her, not for a working stiff like me.
I still couldn’t read her face, but caught a faint tremor down her spine. I realized suddenly this meeting was costing her as much as it was costing me.
She turned briskly to the dark wooden table that dominated the room. “Shall we?” She gestured to the leather chairs, then to an older, gray-haired gentleman I’d just now realized was sitting in the room. “Detective Dodge, Sergeant Warren, please meet my lawyer, Andrew Carson, whom I’ve asked to join us.”
“Feeling guilty?” D.D. asked lightly.
Catherine smiled. “Just Catholic.”
She took a seat. I chose the one across from her. Something about the way she tossed her hair, slightly defiantly, right before she sat down, gave me a flicker of déjà vu. And then in that instant, I got it. She honestly did look like me.
Bobby took out a recorder, placed it in the middle of the table. Catherine glanced at her lawyer, but he didn’t protest, so neither did she. D.D. was also getting herself in order, arranging piles of paper around her like a small fortress. The only people who did nothing were Catherine and me. We simply sat, guests of honor for this strange little party.
Bobby started up the recorder. Announced the date, the location, and the names of those present. He paused on my name, started to say “Annabelle,” then caught himself in time to switch it to “Tanya Nelson.” I appreciated his discretion.
They began with the preliminaries. Catherine Gagnon confirmed she had once lived in Boston at such and such address. In 1980, she had been walking home from school. A vehicle had pulled up beside her, a man calling out from the window, “Hey, honey. Can you help me for a sec? I’m looking for a lost dog.”
She described her subsequent abduction, rescue, and finally the trial of her kidnapper, Richard Umbrio, in May of 1981. Her voice was toneless, almost bored, as she ran swiftly through the chain of events; a woman who has told her story many times.
“And after the conclusion of the trial in ’81, did you have occasion to see Mr. Umbrio again?” D.D. asked.
The lawyer, Carson, immediately raised a hand. “Don’t answer.”
“Mr. Carson—”
“Mrs. Gagnon graciously agreed to answer questions related to her abduction in October through November of 1980,” the attorney clarified. “Whether she saw Mr. Umbrio after 1980, therefore, does not fall under the scope of your interview.”
D.D. appeared highly annoyed. Catherine merely smiled.
“When you were with Mr. Umbrio, in October and November 1980,” D.D. added for emphasis, “did he ever talk to you about o
ther crimes, abductions, or assaults on other victims?”
Catherine shook her head, then added belatedly, for the sake of the tape recorder, “No.”
“Have you ever visited Boston State Mental Hospital?”
Carson held up his hand again. “Mrs. Gagnon, did you ever visit the Boston State Mental Hospital in the fall of 1980?”
“I’ve never even heard of the Boston State Mental Hospital, before or after 1980,” Catherine conceded graciously.
“What about Mr. Umbrio?” D.D. persisted.
“If he had, he obviously didn’t mention it to me, or I would have heard about it, wouldn’t I?”
“What about friends, confidantes? Umbrio ever mention anyone he was close to, or perhaps bring a ‘guest’ to the pit?”
“Please, Richard Umbrio was a teenage version of Lurch. He was too big, too cold, and just plain too freaky even at the age of nineteen. Friends? He had no friends. Why do you think he kept me alive so long?”
This elicited slightly shocked expressions. Catherine simply spread her hands, regarding the rest of us as if we were idiots. “What? You think I never figured out that he was going to kill me? I can tell you for a fact, he tried to kill me every other day. He’d wrap his big sweaty fingers around my neck and squeeze like he was wringing a chicken. Liked to look me right in the eye as he did it, too. But then, at the last second, he’d let me go. Kindness? Compassion? I don’t think so. Not from Richard.
“He just wasn’t ready for me to die yet. I was the perfect playmate. Never argued, always did as I was told. Like he was going to get that lucky in real life.”
She shrugged, the very flatness of her voice making her words that much more cutting.
“He’d strangle you?” D.D. pressed. “With his bare hands? You’re sure of that?”
“Very.”
“Never brought a knife, used a ligature, played around with a garrote?”
“No.”
“You said he tied you up. Rope, handcuffs, other?”
“Rope.”
“One kind of rope, different kinds of ropes? Favorite knots?”
