Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  “Your parents died in a fire?” Helen had told me it was a car accident.

  As Ellen continued, I could feel sparks igniting in my head. “My parents and a sibling. I was never told which one. Frankly, I was too young to understand. And life with Susan and Gordon was so much better than anything I had known...” A surprisingly mannish hand fluttered to her cheek. “Listen to me. I must sound downright boorish to you.” She looked genuinely horrified.

  I said, “Not at all,” and meant it. I wasn’t sure anything could sound boorish to a New Yorker.

  “Gawd, if Tyler could hear me now.”

  “Tyler?”

  “My husband. He knows nothing about this. I hate being dishonest, but I’m not sure he’d understand. Tyler comes from a true American family, unlike mine. If there are skeletons in the Addison family closet, you can bet that they boarded up the door decades ago. Being a Northerner, you may not appreciate how... tiresome it can be maintaining an image, but down here it’s a job a lot of us take real seriously. Susan taught me that early on.”

  Averting her eyes, she paused to smooth down an invisible strand of hair. “My father,” she continued, with a peculiar downturn of her lips, “my father was an immigrant and a true son-of-a-bitch.” The words ran together with vehemence.

  “Pardon my French,” she said, looking not the least bit apologetic. “When Noreen contacted me she fired up old memories I hadn’t even known existed. Can’t say I was real grateful to her.” The bourbon was settling in, her words slurring ever so slightly. “Seems she was starting to have some unsettling nightmares, faint recollections from childhood that were truly plaguing her. My father was a violent man, you see. I have just one memory of him. My mother was an elegant woman who played violin like an angel. One night I was having trouble falling asleep and she came into my room to play me a lullaby. My father was, let’s just say, displeased. He smashed the violin over my bedpost. So maybe you can understand why I wasn’t exactly overjoyed when Noreen called me, trying to piece together the past. As far as I’m concerned, life began here in Atlanta, in a civilized home with civilized people.”

  “What about your other siblings?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Ellen said with raised eyebrows. “But I can barely remember them. There was Melanie and, of course, Noreen. Then Frank, Daniel, and John Junior. We weren’t a close family, at least not as far as I can recall. Though mother did have a peculiar fondness for Daniel.”

  “How did the fire start?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t want to know.” She stood up abruptly. “Why do you suppose this Maggie was calling me?” she said with renewed agitation.

  I answered with a question of my own. “What exactly did she say?”

  “That she was in trouble, she didn’t know who else to turn to. After all, despite the distance and the years, we were sisters.” I watched the words sink in, like an anchor diving into still water. “She was my sister, for heaven’s sake,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  Helpless, I watched her dissolve into tears. There was nothing I could say to comfort her. She turned her back to me and, sensing that she needed a moment alone, I retreated to the bathroom. I was washing my face when the phone rang. I waited for her to pick up, but the phone kept ringing. I dabbed a towel and heard the answering machine click on. “Ellen, it’s Noreen.” At the first words, I darted into the living room. The tremulous voice continued. “I’m catching a seven o’clock flight. If you get this phone call before then, please meet me outside the Roy Rogers in the American Airlines terminal.”

  Ellen was immobile, her hand extending toward phone, but her feet wouldn’t budge. I ran past her.

  “It’s urgent that I speak to you before I leave.”

  I grabbed the receiver and hollered her name, but there was no answer. Then I realized the phone is a damn cordless. By the time I pressed “talk,” Maggie had hung up.

  Ellen looked like a debutante, but she drove like a truck driver. It had taken me less than a minute to convince her that I had to stop Maggie from leaving. Murderer or witness, she was the linchpin in my investigation. I had tried to wrestle the car keys from Ellen, but she had insisted on driving the BMW herself.

  Now, I braced myself against the dashboard as she cut through three lanes to take the airport exit. We whipped around the ramp on two wheels. I was trying to read the signs, but she was zipping past them. Ellen obviously knew exactly where she had to go.

  We screeched to a halt outside the American Airlines terminal, the front wheel of the BMW bumping onto the curb. We jumped out simultaneously and shot through the automatic doors so fast they barely had time to hiccup between our entrances. I paused to get my bearings and shift the strap of my overnight bag, and Ellen barreled past me. I followed her lead, my breathing labored and my head pounding. The events of the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll on me. I could barely keep up.

  At one point Ellen disappeared and I panicked. Then I saw her running up an escalator. The Roy Rogers sign loomed before me as I hopped up the moving stairs. At the top, I spun around in place. There were three phone banks, all of them empty. Ellen and I stared blankly at each other across the food hall.

  At five-thirty in the morning, there were less than ten people milling in the terminal. Eight, if you discounted Ellen and me. None of them were female. Cursing in frustration, I circled the phones over and over. We waited till seven, when the first flights departed. Then Ellen drove home. I bought a return-trip ticket and dulled my senses with a Boston cream donut, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and three coffees. I was searching for a place that sold Yoo-Hoos when my name came over the loud speakers. I darted to the nearest airport phone.

  “What the hell have you gotten me into?” It was Ellen. She didn’t give me time to ask for an explanation. “Someone’s ransacked my home. Ripped up my photo albums, upturned my bookcases, my desk. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. What am I supposed to tell Tyler?” Her anger dissolved into hysteria. “I don’t need this. I want my life back, goddamn you!”

  My first thought was, not again. “Where are you now?” Fire broke out in my stomach. I had to make sure she was safe. “Ellen, do you hear me?”

  After another moment, she answered uneasily. “In my living room.”

  I suddenly felt queasy. “Have you checked the rest of the apartment?”

  Her hesitation was all I needed. “Go to a neighbor’s now! Then call the police.”

  “But what—”

  “Do it.”

  I grabbed the first taxi back to her apartment complex. The cab pulled in behind two patrol cars. I paid the driver to wait, then approached the vestibule with studied nonchalance. The young officer at the entrance had a soft chin and eyes too small for his head. I rummaged through the briefcase for a set of keys that wouldn’t open a single door in town and headed inside.

  “Name,” Soft Chin asked, blocking the apartment listing from my view.

  “Jane Aldicott. Apartment 3D. What’s the trouble, officer?” I sounded like Scarlett.

  Reviewing the directory to confirm the name and apartment number, which I had remembered from my earlier visit, he said, “Nothing to worry about, ma’am. We have it all under wraps.” He opened the door and waved me in.

  Fighting the impulse to charge upstairs, I waited for the elevator. When I exited on the third floor, Ellen was in the hallway, sobbing to a neighbor who reminded me of June Allison. They both turned at the sound of the elevator. Ellen’s eyes caught mine and she widened them in warning. I took one step in her direction and she whirled around, grabbing her neighbor by the elbow. Her back sent me a too-clear message. She wanted me to disappear.

  Reluctantly I obeyed.

  Soft Chin was leaning into his patrol car and talking on his radio when I left the building. I hopped into the waiting cab before he noticed me. The whole way to the airport, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. The obvious answer was that someone had followe
d me to Atlanta. What I didn’t understand was why they had ransacked Ellen’s place.

  I forked over the fare to the driver and reentered the terminal. Suddenly another thought occurred to me. What if Maggie’s call had been a ruse to lure Ellen out of her apartment? Then I remembered how frantic she had sounded on the phone. Besides, she had had plenty of time to break into the apartment while Ellen was in Dallas. No—whoever ransacked the place must have trailed me there from the Hotel Nikko. So why hadn’t he or she followed us to the airport?

  There were two possibilities. The first was that Ellen’s apartment had always been the primary goal. After all, Maggie herself obviously had a pressing need to contact Ellen. The second possibility was that we had been followed, but when we were inside aimlessly circling the airport terminal, the perpetrator had returned to the apartment to search for some bit of information I didn’t even know existed, or maybe a lead on where Maggie was headed.

  I was just about to pass through the metal detector when it hit me. If someone had followed me here from the Poconos, he or she had to still be here. Or on the first leg of a flight home. With an unnatural calm, I headed back into the waiting area. I found an inconspicuous phone booth with a view of the taxi stand. People were arriving now in droves. I stared at the doors, trembling as I dialed information. I wrote down the numbers on my palm, the ink smearing in the sweat.

  I plugged in my calling card number, my fingers turning cold. With each peal of the phone, my throat tightened. Don’t let it be Dean, I found myself pleading silently. By the eighth ring, I was almost in tears. My index finger was reaching for the disconnect when his voice cracked over the wire. Every muscle in my body went limp. “Dean?” I practically wailed.

  “Robin? Where the hell are you? I was up all night waiting to hear from you.” Despite the lousy connection, I could hear the edginess in his voice. I knew from experience what lack of sleep could do to a person so I trod lightly. I rapidly brought him up to date, leaving Ellen out of the picture temporarily. Disclosing the full story would have taken too much time, and I still had four other numbers to call. He was barely breathing by the time I was done.

  “Do you have any clue about where she may have gone?” he asked quietly. I had the distinct impression he was seething just below the surface. I couldn’t blame him. I hated to say no, but the fact was that Maggie had successfully evaded me. Temporarily. With what I now knew, finding her was just a matter of time. “She was using Noreen’s credit cards,” I explained, “but I doubt she’ll continue doing that. Without cards or cash, she’ll have to stop running soon. That’s when we’ll find her. Who knows? Maybe she’ll even come home on her own.”

  He sighed. “Why is she doing this?” His voice cracked.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that one possible reason for Maggie’s disappearance was that she had been responsible for Noreen’s death. Dean was smart. Soon he would have to start facing facts. I didn’t want to rush him. “Look, Dean, I have to go now. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything else.”

  “I don’t understand. This is crazy. Why the hell was she even down there?” He shouted questions at me I couldn’t begin to answer. In the distance, the speakers crackled with the boarding announcement for my flight. It echoed in my ears.

  “I really have to go now —”

  “Fine, fine. Do what you have to. Can I do anything to help?”

  “Just sit tight. I’ll call back soon.”

  “Maybe I should run over to Carly and Amy’s and let them know what’s happening. I’m sure they’re worried about you.”

  I told him I intended to call them myself. I didn’t tell him why.

  Carly answered on the second ring. She sounded too wide awake for my liking. “Is Amy there?” I asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

  She was equally abrupt. “What are you doing down in Atlanta?”

  “Didn’t you get my message last night?”

  “Oh yeah. I got it.” She was incensed. I couldn’t understand why.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Amy and I had a blowup last night when I got in. I walked into the house and found Helen rocking Amy in her arms. I lost it, Rob. That woman’s been around here way too often lately.” She started to cry.

  It was almost more than I could stand. “Carl, let me speak to Ame.”

  “She’s not here. When I started screaming, Helen told Amy she shouldn’t put up with me. Can you believe it? Like I’m some kind of monster. They left right away. I stewed for an hour and then drove down to Helen’s place. Her van was gone. And so was Amy. She finally called a little while ago just to tell me she was safe. That was it. She hung up on me before I could say a word.”

  I swallowed hard before asking the next question. “Carly, what kind of van does Helen drive?”

  “A Ford Bronco.”

  I almost crushed the phone in my hand.

  Chapter Ten

  The plane ride back to Newark was agonizing. Every air pocket jolted me into near cardiac arrest. I ate incessantly, begging the flight attendant for a second breakfast like a homeless person who hadn’t eaten for days.

  I didn’t know what to make of all the information rumbling inside my head. After talking to Carly I had dialed, in rapid succession, the numbers of the other people who had known I was on my way to Atlanta. Neither Douglas Marks nor Fred DeLuca had been home. For good measure, I tried Manny Diaz. Another no answer. Cursing, I slammed the phone down. Where the hell was everybody? Then I remembered. It was Thanksgiving Day morning. Any one of my potential suspects could have just as easily been on vacation or visiting a beloved relative as they could have been ransacking an apartment in Atlanta. Unfortunately I couldn’t advance my investigation a single inch.

  I had one hard fact, and it stuck in my throat like a dry chicken bone. Helen owned a Bronco. Could Helen have run me off the road, returned to Amy’s house, then raced to the airport ahead of me? The timing was possible, but the scenario still struck me as unlikely. Why would Helen have wasted time by driving back up to Telham? The only possible answer was that Amy was more involved in this madness than I wanted to imagine.

  I remembered the way Amy had consoled Helen the morning of the murder, how uncomfortable their closeness had made me feel. Had I picked up on some sexual energy between them? Could they be lovers? Then it hit me between the eyes. Amy could very well have been the woman lurking in Helen’s bedroom yesterday morning, before I stumbled on the sciatica potion. The very thought made my stomach revolt.

  I tried to recall whether she was carrying anything with her when she caught me in the kitchen. With a stabbing disappointment, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bag of groceries. Where had Amy been at nine in the morning?

  Even the sixth cup of coffee wasn’t helping me sift through the muddle that used to be a rational mind. I needed sleep. I forced myself to close my eyes, but my body almost laughed. It was like asking a racehorse to nap after just running the Kentucky Derby. I was functioning on sheer adrenaline now. Decades of insomnia had taught me that it doesn’t pay to fight physiology. If my body wanted me to stay up, that’s exactly what I was going to do. And when it allowed me to collapse, I wouldn’t resist.

  I whipped out my laptop. The self-test lights winked at me while I struggled to think clearly. Start with the obvious questions, I admonished myself as my fingers tripped over the keyboard.

  Why is Maggie running?

  Maggie had disappeared the very morning Noreen had died. The timing had to be related. If she didn’t kill Noreen herself, then I was sure she knew who did. I gestured the flight attendant over for another coffee refill. She looked at me with incredulity, but filled my plastic mug with a Miss American smile. I swallowed it with relish, my heart skipping a beat in response.

  From what Jill had discovered in her computer search, I knew Maggie must have appropriated at least two of Noreen’s major credit cards, as well as her ATM card and driver’s license — which meant that Maggie probab
ly had been in Noreen’s house shortly after she died.

  Whoever killed Noreen had been clever enough to arrange the murder so that he or she didn’t have to be present when Noreen actually took the fatal dose of medicine. And if Maggie didn’t have to actually see the murderer to know enough to panic and run, then she had to know with horrifying certainty who had an overriding reason for killing Noreen — and anyone else who knew as much as Maggie. And I, great detective that I am, had let her slip away. I groaned out loud. I had to find her. But I didn’t know where to start. After all, I still wasn’t sure why she had chosen Atlanta in the first place.

  The laptop screen flashed off in warning. My batteries were low. I hit the space bar and was about to sign off when my eyes centered on Ellen Addison’s name.

  Maggie had sprinted to Noreen’s sister — the sister few people even knew existed. My hands froze over the keyboard. I slapped the tray, sloshing coffee over my lap. Damn! I wasn’t thinking clearly. There was one factor I hadn’t even considered yet, though it was leaping off the screen.

  Who the hell was the unknown family member who had ordered Noreen’s cremation? Noreen had hired a detective last year to find the siblings she had lost following her parents’ death. Ellen said she was the first one identified. But it sure as hell didn’t mean she was the last. And if Ellen wasn’t pleased to have her past rear its ugly head, I had a sinking feeling someone else had reason to be downright furious. I replayed the conversation with Ellen. Her father had been abusive. The family’s life had been a turbulent one enough so that a four-year-old child had blithely accepted strangers as her parents and never once looked back.

  Was it possible that one of the Finnegan children had set the fire that killed both parents and one sibling? And what if in the process of struggling to reunite her lost family Noreen had unearthed an early, insufferable memory? Would that be reason enough for someone to kill Noreen? I was projecting my own life into this scenario, I recognized. But — if the truth would destroy a life painstakingly built on the ashes of a first murder, I had no doubt that the answer was yes.