by Chelsea Cain
“It’s okay. I get it. You can’t compromise the case. But Claire’s right, you can’t just sit here. Come with me. It’ll be fun. Old people. There might be Jell-O.”
Archie coughed and looked unconvinced.
“I’m not a member of the press anymore,” Susan said. “This woman, she has no reason to tell me anything if I’m not writing a story.” Susan held up a strand of her raspberry hair. “I’m not exactly catnip to old people.” Old people crossed the street sometimes when they saw her coming. “But a cop? She’d talk to you.”
“McBee, huh?” Archie said.
“Stop and feed the cats,” Claire said to Susan.
“Really?” Susan asked.
Claire got up and opened a white Formica wardrobe. Susan couldn’t see what was inside, but she assumed it was Henry’s clothes, because it looked like she was digging in the pockets. She closed the wardrobe and tossed something through the air at Susan.
Susan resisted the urge to dodge it, and instead got a hand up in time to catch the key ring. She looked at it with surprise. She’d caught it! She almost never caught anything.
It was a heavy key ring. Henry was a man with many locks. She glanced down at them all, a great fist of silver and brass. Big keys. Medium keys. Keys with colorful plastic collars around the bows. Dirty keys. Clean keys. And on top of all those keys, one other.
A tiny black key.
Like something that might open the front door to a dollhouse.
Susan stared down at the key for a long second. There were lots of keys in the world. Lots of locks.
She lifted the key ring by the little key and held it up toward Archie.
She didn’t have to say anything.
He reached out slowly and took it, and his eyebrows drew together.
“What?” Claire said, standing up.
“It looks like the key the kid left behind,” Archie said softly.
Claire gazed down at the key. Her face was seven kinds of stillness. “That key wasn’t on there yesterday,” she said.
Archie fumbled with his wallet, opened it, and slipped out the key that the kid had left behind under his hospital bed.
The keys looked identical.
Archie got out his phone and hit a number. “It’s me,” he said. “I need to know what was found in the pockets of the three other TTX victims.” He listened for a moment. Then lowered his forehead onto a hand and rubbed his temples. “What do the keys look like?”
Susan’s stomach turned. The killer had left that key with Henry. Just as he’d apparently left keys with his other victims. The killer had touched it, and she had held it in her hand.
Claire reached into her purse, got out her own key chain, twisted off a key, and handed it to Susan. Susan understood. It was Claire’s copy of Henry’s house key.
“He’ll be a while,” Claire said. “I guess you’re on your own with the old people.”
Susan looked down at the house key. She was being dismissed. At least she still got to feed the cats.
Claire closed her eyes and settled back into the chair. “Leave the muffin,” she said.
Archie was still on the phone when Susan left.
CHAPTER
24
Archie watched as Robbins propped the three photographs side by side against Henry’s motionless calf.
When a body ended up at the morgue, all the personal items were removed, bagged, and catalogued. Clothing. Jewelry. Nipple rings. A morgue tech took it all. Sometimes it went back to the family, sometimes it got tagged as evidence, sometimes it got lost in the chaos of a flood evacuation. Sometimes it got photographed.
Three photographs. Three key rings. All different. Stephanie Towner’s keys were on a silver S. Megan Parr’s keys were on a Honda fob. Zak Korber’s keys were at the end of a silver chain that had once been clipped to his belt loop. Different keys. With one exception. Each ring had the same small black key.
It was there, in every photograph, clear as day. Removed. Bagged. Catalogued. But no one had made the connection.
The key from Henry’s pocket and the key from the kid were each in an evidence bag. Claire studied them now, and then sighed and tossed the two bags onto the bed next to the photographs.
Robbins scooted forward on his stool and adjusted one of the photographs on Henry’s leg. “Are you sure he doesn’t mind that?” he asked Claire, raising an eyebrow.
“It makes him feel like he’s helping,” Claire said.
“How did we miss this?” Archie asked.
“They all had keys,” Robbins said. “If I shot you in the head right now and dragged your ass down to the morgue, I bet I’d find keys on your body, too.”
“We didn’t know they were murders until last night,” Claire said.
Archie cracked his neck. His body ached from sleeping in the chair. He tried to stretch but there wasn’t enough space in the room. “The killer waited until after they were paralyzed, and then took the time to add a key to their key chains,” he said. The keys obviously meant something. He was sending a message.
Claire poked at the evidence bags. “The keys look the same,” she said. “But they open different locks. Look at the edges. They’re different.”
“I want these fingerprinted,” Archie said, waving a hand at the photographs of the keys.
Robbins picked up the evidence bags. “I can drop these two off at the lab,” he said. He glanced at the photographs. “The other three might take some turning up.”
The morgue, thought Archie, his head throbbing. Its contents had been transported all over the city.
“It’s not like they’re lost,” Robbins said. “They’re just packed away somewhere.”
“And the kid?” Claire asked, finally putting what they were all thinking into words. “Where did he get one?”
“I’ll make another media push,” Archie said. “See if we can identify him.”
Now there was no question that the kid was wrapped up in this.
But how?
Archie picked up one of the photographs and held it a few inches from his nose. Claire was right. The blades of the keys were different. But the bows of the keys were the same—round, the size of a thumbnail. They were all black. And they all appeared to be covered with a fine patina of crud and rust.
Whatever locks those keys had once opened hadn’t been opened in a long time.
CHAPTER
25
The Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility was on Mississippi Avenue, which explained the Mississippi thing, but not the Magnolia part. As far as Susan could tell, there was not a magnolia tree in sight.
She picked a piece of cat hair off of her black sweater—or was it goat hair?—and flicked it out her car window while she smoked a cigarette. Henry’s cats had met her at his front door and had led her right to where their food was kept in the kitchen. A dirty coffee cup sat out next to the sink where Henry had left it. Susan fed the cats, gave them a big bowl of water, and locked up. She thought about rinsing out the coffee cup and putting it away, but decided against it. Henry would want to do that himself, when he got home.
She finished the cigarette and watched the street. Mississippi Avenue had been redeveloped over the past ten years. Boarded-up storefronts had transformed into coffee shops and record stores. Then a video store, a bar. A couple of restaurants went in after that. Some retail boutiques. More bars. The coffee shop and record store people hated the boutiques for attracting moneyed suburban types to the neighborhood for $300 pants. The boutiques hated the bars for attracting patrons who vomited on their flower boxes. Everyone complained about the new condo developments, but secretly hoped a Whole Foods would go in.
Susan liked Mississippi. It was a good place to go if you were looking for a bike helmet, a taxidermied hyena head, some sweet potato fries, and The Prisoner on DVD.
No one was doing much business today. Stores were closed. Traffic lights were out. The corner of Mississippi and Shaver had so much standing water it was
impassable, and the only people around looked like they were triaging flooded basements.
Susan had parked directly in front of the Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility. This was one of the unsung pleasures of dangerous weather—it presented excellent parking opportunities. The building was rectangular and brick, and built right up against the sidewalk. It looked like someplace you’d go to file for unemployment.
It wasn’t raining at the moment, but Susan ran from her car to the front door out of instinct.
She paused inside to wipe her feet.
There was a lounge area to the right. Nothing fancy. Someone had definitely gotten a deal on used hotel room love seats. But there was a piano, and shelves were stacked three deep with books.
The reception desk was on the left.
The woman behind the desk had a sweep of officious-looking hair and was wearing a purple turtleneck and blazer. She already had her arms crossed. Susan recognized the pose. She’d seen it a lot as a teenager after she’d bleached her hair, wore all black, and carried her backpack into stores.
“I’m looking for Gloria Larson,” Susan said.
The woman’s expression didn’t flicker. She had that sort of impeccable Avon lady makeup that involved all kinds of pencils and shading. “And you are?” she said.
“I’m a journalist,” Susan said. “Mrs. Larson has information on a story I’m working on.”
The woman’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Gloria Larson?” she repeated. “Our Gloria?” She still hadn’t uncrossed her arms.
Susan smiled at her and tried to look like someone who wore lip liner, just not today, because she had forgotten.
“It’s very important I talk to her,” Susan explained. “She called me. She wants to help.”
“What did you do to your hair?” the woman asked.
“It’s a shade of Manic Panic,” Susan said with a sigh. “Deadly Nightshade.”
Susan’s hair seemed to light a match in the woman’s imagination and she looked hard at Susan’s head, like she was inspecting the fat content of a candy bar she was considering buying, and then her painted eyebrows shot up, her arms dropped, and she beamed. “Susan Ward,” she said. “I recognize you now. I read your column. Remember the one about the blind guy who stole the car?”
Why did people always feel the need to remind her about stuff she herself had written about? “I do remember that, yes,” Susan said.
The woman clapped her hands, delighted. “He made it a half mile before he crashed into a tree and they arrested him.”
It wasn’t even a good story. Susan had written that column in ten minutes. She’d been late to a movie. “That was a funny one,” she said.
The woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “I cut it out and sent it to my niece in Florida.”
“So, about Gloria,” Susan said.
“I’m getting to it.”
Ten minutes later Susan was riding the elevator with the director of the Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility. Fiftyish, he introduced himself as Barry. He had on tan pants and a blue button-down, no tie. An array of phones and beepers were arranged on his belt.
“She phoned you in the middle of the night?” he asked.
“Yes,” Susan said.
“That makes sense. It’s when she’s most lucid.“
“Alzheimer’s?” Susan asked.
“Dementia, bundled with Parkinson’s-like symptoms. She’s never gotten a firm diagnosis.” The elevator stopped and they followed him into a dimly lit hall. “At her age, the docs aren’t very aggressive.”
“How old is she?” Susan asked.
“Eighty-five,” Barry said. He stopped at a door where a plastic Christmas wreath still hung, and knocked. “She came to us two years ago,” he continued, “when her daughter could no longer take care of her. She’s a lovely woman.” He lowered his voice. “But she’s in and out.”
The door opened and a wizened face appeared. She was tall, for an old person, maybe five-eight. Her white hair was clipped back at the base of her neck, and she was dressed nicely in a pair of slacks, a blouse, and a cardigan. She looked at them with questioning blue eyes.
“Mrs. Larson?” Susan said. “My name’s Susan Ward. I write for the Herald.” A tiny lie. “You called me last night?”
Gloria Larson smiled. “Hello, dear,” she said. She turned and headed back into the apartment, leaving the door open for Susan and Barry the administrator to follow her. They did. A TV was on, turned to the local news. Gloria perched in a striped armchair that looked like it had been bought before Gunsmoke went off the air. She sat down easily, like someone half her age. Susan and Barry took seats on the matching striped couch.
The apartment consisted of a living room, small kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. It smelled like talcum powder and the stale tang of Palmolive dish soap.
Gloria reached to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned down the volume, but not all the way. “They say the flooding has killed twelve hundred cows in Tillamook County,” she said. She said it conversationally, the way you might mention that asparagus season had started, oh, and squirrels were falling dead from the sky.
Barry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “This woman,” he said, with a head tilt at Susan, “is here because of the remains that were found in the Columbia Slough last week. The skeleton.”
“All right,” Gloria said.
“I’m a journalist,” Susan said.
Gloria gave Susan a chipper nod. “I understand. You’re here to question me.”
She seemed coherent enough. “Yes,” Susan said.
Gloria’s clear blue gaze wandered around the room and then landed again on Susan. “Do you work here?” she asked.
So much for coherent.
“My name is Susan Ward,” Susan said. “I wrote a story for the Herald about the skeleton they found at the slough. You said you might know who it is.”
Barry adjusted his posture again. All those phones and beepers must have been uncomfortable. “Does any of this sound familiar, Mrs. Larson?”
Her eyes darted between them and she looked uncertain, like she was watching a table tennis game and didn’t know the score.
“You mentioned a name,” Susan said. “McBee?”
Gloria cocked her head at Susan. “Where did you hear that name?”
“From you.”
“I don’t remember,” Gloria said, squinting. She turned her attention back to the TV. “They’re talking about the flood. The dike’s burst. Water’s pouring through. Why aren’t they evacuating?”
“Were you at Vanport, Mrs. Larson?” Susan asked.
“Memorial Day, 1948.”
“You remember,” Susan said.
The old woman looked off past the TV at nothing in particular. “I had a black 1939 Chrysler in those days. Beautiful car. Paid for it myself. I still took the trolleys, though. That was back when the trolleys went all the way down to Oaks Park.”
Susan remembered all the upturned cars in the photographs she’d seen at the hospital. “Did you lose the car in the flood?” she asked.
Gloria smiled to herself. “I haven’t seen that car in some time,” she said. She reached for the remote and increased the volume. “They’ve evacuated six hundred people from Vernonia.”
Charlene Wood from KGW was reporting from Tillamook. A dead cow floated past behind her. The scroll at the bottom of the screen promised more snowmelt, more rain, more flooding. U.S. 26, I-84, and U.S. 30 had all been closed due to mudslides. Amtrak was shut down.
Barry clapped his hands on his knees and sat forward. “I think we’re done here,” he said.
“Can I leave my card?” Susan asked. Gloria’s gaze remained fixed on the television screen. Susan rifled through her purse, emptying items onto the coffee table—an Altoid tin, a box of tampons, an empty water bottle, used Kleenex, a pack of yellow American Spirits, a glittery pink Hello Kitty pen. She was looking for something to write on. She didn’t want to leave
a Herald card. But she didn’t want to write her number down on the back of a Burgerville receipt, either. She settled on one of Archie’s business cards. She’d grabbed a handful at some point, and kept them in her wallet, jammed behind the gym membership card she never used. You never knew when that kind of thing would come in handy. She was sure she could use one to get out of a traffic stop one day. She crossed out Archie’s name and rank and the Portland city seal, and wrote her name and cell phone number on the back with the Hello Kitty pen. Then she added the word McBee, followed by a question mark.
“Call me if you remember anything,” she said to Gloria. She set the card on the coffee table. Next to the remote, so Gloria would be sure to see it.
Gloria glanced back at her and smiled. “Of course, dear,” she said.
Barry was already standing up, scrolling through text messages like he had something important to do.
Susan held the mouth of her purse open next to the table, and swept all the stuff she’d taken out of her purse back inside it. The tampon box top opened as she did, and all the tampons slid out loose into her purse. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded. But Barry was acting all anxious to go, and it made Susan want to take her time. There was a study about that once. When people in parking lots saw that a car was waiting for their spot, they always took longer to pull out of it. It was a statistical fact.
She felt around the bottom of her bag and scooped them back up, the white paper wrappers already soiled with detritus from the depths of her bag—an old Jolly Rancher, lint, tobacco, a fingernail clipping.
Susan flicked the fingernail clipping back into her purse.
Barry looked a little terrified.
“Sorry,” Susan said, stuffing the tampons back in the box.
She sifted her hand through her purse again and came up with a few more tampons, some change, a flattened Hershey’s Kiss, and a few loose Chinese uppers.
