Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  The adoption search no longer seemed incidental.

  If my hunch was correct, any one of the potential suspects in the case could have a plausible motive I hadn’t yet uncovered — including Maggie, Fred, Camilla, Amy, and Douglas. Even Helen. The implications of the last name made me shiver. Surely that would have been too hideous a coincidence, for two women to become lovers without realizing their shared parentage? I thought of their sudden breakup last summer and shuddered.

  No. It just wasn’t possible.

  I stared at the remaining names. Maggie was the only suspect who even vaguely favored Noreen, but then again I hadn’t recognized a family resemblance in Ellen either.

  With the insistence of a stubborn dog, the presumption that Noreen had found another sibling dug its heels into my thoughts. Suddenly even Noreen’s insistence on moving to not just Canadensis, but into Telham Village in particular, seemed suspect. I had a strong hunch she had been interested in more than just the scenic views. In fact, hadn’t Helen said that it was the detective’s cousin who had recommended Telham? Perhaps Helen had lied to me once again. Or maybe she really didn’t know the whole story. And then a scud missile exploded between my eyes.

  The detective Noreen had hired died in August.

  Had that been the murderer’s first attempt to silence the past?

  I was playing a mean game of chess with a cunning master. With that realization, my body finally capitulated and allowed me to collapse.

  The cabin was Oz at the end of the brick road, Valhalla to a slain hero. Home. I unlocked the door with a sense of peace I rarely felt running up the steps of my Park Slope brownstone. Maybe I really would buy the place one day, I considered with surprise.

  I had slept for less than an hour on the plane and awoke more exhausted than before. I had rented a car and driven back to the Poconos with both eyes half-closed. There was one thing I wanted now more than anything in the world, and that was at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep. But I couldn’t waste the time.

  Dropping my bags on the den floor, I pulled out the sheet of paper where I had written the phone numbers of the neighbors who lived near the Finnegans at the time of the fire. Eleanor Dunn was still listed at 723 Hennessey Lane. I dialed the number. It rang ten times before I hung up. Barely pausing to breathe, I stabbed Jill Zimmerman’s home number onto the phone. “Is your CD-ROM system fixed yet?”

  She didn’t bother answering. I heard the phone drop onto a hard surface, then feet retreating. She muttered a hasty explanation I could barely hear. I didn’t have a similar problem understanding the various profanities spewing from her husband’s mouth. It was the first time I had ever heard John curse. A second later Jill picked up the extension. “It’s up and running. What do you want?”

  I was straining our friendship, but my back was against the wall. The case had pushed me there. “Plug in the PhoneDisc USA-Residential directory.”

  She hesitated. “You want the current phone numbers for the eight names you gave me the other day?”

  “Right.”

  “Get a pen, boss lady.” Without skipping a beat, she read off six numbers.

  I was so startled by the immediacy of her response I had to ask her to repeat them. “How’d you do that so fast?” I asked. “Those discs contain over eighty million names.”

  “I conducted the search late yesterday. I already interviewed two of the parties. They didn’t remember the Finnegans.”

  Properly chastened by her efficiency, I hastily apologized.

  She chuckled and said, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Want to hear the rest of my news?” After pointedly updating me on Tony’s health, she explained that the probe into the finances of the DeLucas had revealed that the gardening business was barely running in the black, but that wasn’t unusual for a new venture. Both Fred and Camilla had impeccable credit histories. The only detail of any interest was the fact that they had been late on their mortgage payments for the last two months. At the same time, there had been three substantial withdrawals from their joint account. The total amount withdrawn came to just under $10,000. The balance of the account was a little over $13,500.

  “There’s one last piece of information you’ll find interesting. Your friend Fred was a bit of a juvenile delinquent. There are two counts of car theft on his record. He served one year when he was eighteen. No known criminal activity since then.”

  I jotted the information down and said, “Good work,” the words sounding lame even to my own ears.

  Her tone was curt as she said, “Glad you noticed.”

  Hating to further cut into her holiday, I nevertheless instructed her to check whether any suspect besides Helen owned a navy or black Ford Bronco. Then I asked her to look into the death of the detective Noreen had hired last spring. We ended the conversation with a hint of civility, but I knew I would have to work long and hard to compensate for the way I had treated her the last few days.

  The guilt propelled me into the kitchen where the discovery of a six-pack of Yoo-Hoos chilling on the bottom shelf of the fridge rendered me instantly delirious. Downing two bottles in succession, I decided to give my partner Tony a call. Jill had said he was acting like his old Bible-quoting self yesterday, but I wanted to see for myself how he was faring. His machine abruptly reminded me that he was in Phoenix for the next week. The mechanized version of his basso profundo just made me feel worse. I had forgotten Tony was planning to spend the holiday with his sister.

  Once again convinced that I was a no-good louse, I got back on the case. In less than one hour, I ran through the numbers Jill had given me. No one could tell me more about the Finnegan fire than I already knew, and two offered obviously distorted versions of the truth. One querulous woman related how the house had exploded, killing three families on the block. An elderly man first explained that the whole family had burned to death, and then corrected himself by saying the house had been struck by lightning, leaving all the occupants unscathed except the family dog — whose charred skeleton he had personally buried. I figured the guy was a retired editor for the National Enquirer and hung up before he started telling me about the Nantucket alien who had given birth to a talking chipmunk.

  None of the neighbors knew what happened to any of the kids, other than the cute four-year-old who had been shipped to Atlanta.

  At two of the homes, I received no answer at all. I wrote asterisks next to those names, then returned to the top of the list and tried Eleanor Dunn again. An elderly woman picked up almost immediately. Her voice had the squeak of an ungreased wheel. With gritted teeth, I plunged into my pretext. I explained that I was a private detective hired to locate the Finnegan children. One of them had died and in her will had named the other siblings as equal beneficiaries. To add weight to my story, I mentioned that we had already located Ellen Finnegan.

  “Why, I’m sorry about Noreen but I’m real glad you called, dear. It’s so sad the way she lost her family. As I said the last time, that incident was the worst tragedy I ever witnessed.” Talking to me as if we were old friends, she obviously relished the chance to rehash the incident. “Those poor children had enough to deal with before the fire. I don’t mind telling you there were times my heart would break at the sounds I heard coming from that place.” She lowered her voice as if she were afraid someone might overhear her. “That John Finnegan was a vicious man. He once kicked my poor Sally in the head just ’cause she relieved herself on his lawn. She was only a silly pup, for heaven’s sake. But the man was a police officer, so I just kept mum.”

  “Did the newspapers ever say what started the fire?”

  “Well, dear, there was some nonsense about a pan catching fire in the kitchen, but none of us ever bought that.”

  I sat up in my chair and asked, “Why not?” If she started talking about lightning bolts, I promised myself I would retire instantly.

  “Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me. John had run into trouble on the force. I only knew because I could hear t
he two of them fighting about it almost every night. He was drinking more and more. So was Adelaide. I could hear his ugliness all the way across the street. He was calling her a tramp and accusing her of plotting to steal the kids from him.”

  “Was she?”

  She practically cackled. “Now how would I know that, honey? That other detective asked me the very same thing —”

  The phone slipped in my hand. “What other detective?”

  “Don’t you know?” she asked, immediately distressed. “I just assumed you two worked together.”

  Eleanor was a gossip, but she wasn’t a fool. She clammed up, clearly on guard now. I had to win her confidence. “You mean my uncle? Jeez. I hate when he does this. I end up wasting time covering ground he’s already left far behind.”

  “What’s your uncle’s name?” She had dropped the endearments.

  The question was obviously a test I needed to pass in order to obtain more information. I coughed, stalling for time as I rifled through my files, trying to locate the detective’s name Ellen Addison had casually mentioned during our discussion in Atlanta. The name had reminded me of a cat —

  Morris,” I erupted. “George Morris. When did he call you?”

  “Last spring, I reckon. He said that Noreen Finnegan was trying to reunite her brothers and sisters. I thought that was about the sweetest thing I ever heard. I told him about Ellen, you know, the one in Atlanta. But here’s the strange thing. Just last week I was cleaning out the attic and I came across a letter one of the Finnegan kids sent my youngest son. Hold on, let me get it.”

  I was breathing so heavily I was dizzy by the time she picked up again. “The letter’s real short, saying how unhappy they were about leaving their friends behind, how their new parents were almost as mean as their old, stuff like that.”

  “You keep saying ‘they’ —”

  “Of course. The twins. Daniel and Melanie. They got placed together, I knew that much from the start. But I couldn’t remember where. Then I found this here letter. The return address reminded me. They were adopted by a family in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania. The Van Eycks. The father, I think his name was Andrew, was a minister of some sort. I don’t recall hearing anything about the wife.”

  “What happened to the other siblings?”

  She tut-tutted into the phone. “Well, poor Frankie died in the fire, along with his parents. He was the youngest boy. Five years old, and yet the man of the house. John favored him, so he had an easy time of it. The other boy, John Junior, was shipped off to some family in California. Now there was a child who would’ve made most parents real proud. A gentle boy with a mind as sharp as a whip. His father hated him . . . I never could figure out why. Can’t tell you how many times I’d see that man smacking the child alongside his head, calling him all sorts of names. Adelaide told me once, had to be no more than three weeks before the fire, John was fearful the boy was too soft. You know what I’m saying? He didn’t want a son — especially one carrying his name — to end up . . . queer.”

  I was jotting down notes so fast, my hand started to cramp. I stretched out my fingers and asked, “What do you think caused the fire?”

  “Now, dear, you should really get your uncle to share information with you. This seems an awful waste of time.”

  For a second, I was afraid that she would refuse to tell me more. But Eleanor was on a roll.

  “As my late husband Harold, may he in rest in peace, used to say, someone in that house just didn’t want no more hurting. He thought Adelaide set the fire herself. I always guessed it was John Junior. Though it could’ve been Daniel — the boy was way too attached to his mother, if you ask me. In any case, that was no kitchen fire. I’ve never seen anything go up so fast in my life. One second, the house was there, the next there was nothing but ash. The bodies were so badly burned, they had to identify them by their teeth. And let me tell you something else, I knew that family. They ate at six-thirty sharp. If Adelaide was a minute late, you could hear John tearing through the house. So you tell me how a grease fire started just after eight. No. Someone set that fire, that’s a sure thing. Who knows? Maybe John’s friends on the force covered up the truth. That’s what most of us thought. You know, protect the reputation of the dead, save the kids more anguish. Anyway, the second time your uncle called, I told him if Noreen was interested in a reunion, she had better watch out which siblings she found.”

  Five minutes after we hung up, I was on the phone with an FTD florist. Eleanor Dunn would have a dozen yellow roses on her doorstep by Friday. She deserved better, but I didn’t have time to send Hallmark.

  With a solid lead at hand, I felt as if I had topped a mountain crest that revealed a new and unexpected vista. My body’s response was to instantly crash. At last, I allowed myself to head upstairs for a nap. I popped some Advil, then crawled into bed fully clothed and curled around my pillows.

  The box spring creaked beneath my weight. But I hadn’t shifted. I awoke suddenly, skittered off the bed, then spun around in a crouch that would enable me to strike out with my palm or heel.

  Dressed in a loose lilac satin nightshirt, K.T. was kneeling on the mattress, her face caught somewhere between a giggle and a howl. “Boy, you Brooklyn girls really are tough.”

  She looked radiant, her autumn-red hair freshly washed, her scrubbed skin the color of peach blossoms, and her eyes as green as pine leaves in a spring rain. For once, I didn’t stop to think. I pounced on her. After I had refreshed my mouth with the sweet taste of her tongue, I raised myself up on my elbow and stared at her in disbelief. “When did you get here?”

  “Here, in the cabin, or here, in Telham?”

  She looked so delicious, lying just within reach of my lips, I had to lower myself to her earlobes. Nibbling lightly, I said, “Here, here.”

  She laughed. “Is that a cheer or an answer?”

  Still chomping at her ear, I didn’t bother to reply.

  “I drove up around eleven this morning. Carly gave me the rundown,” she continued in a tone that was distinctly censorious. I didn’t care. At that moment, she could have spanked me. Matter of fact, I wished she would. “The two of us took a walk about three hours ago and saw the car. We came in together, but when we heard you snoring from way downstairs, Carly headed home. I’ve been here ever since.”

  I didn’t want to think about Carly. Or Amy. I wanted to think about skin. I licked her shoulder, “And you haven’t ravaged me yet?”

  Squirming away from my mouth, she said, “Robin, stop for a second.” This time her tone commanded my attention. “I’ve been worried about you. Carly and I spent all morning trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  Instantly defensive, I blurted, “I didn’t realize you both were in the PI business.”

  “Not with the goddamn case. With you. Why you tried to chase me off that way. Don’t you realize I’m crazy about you?”

  I tried to ward it off, but it was too late. The gates slammed down. I sat up and crossed my arms across my chest. K.T. tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and waited. So did I. If she wanted to have this kind of conversation instead of making love, she could have it with herself. I didn’t have the energy.

  She looked at me and smiled. Smiled! I didn’t know how to react. Those leaf-green eyes were defiantly amused. They seemed to say, “I knew that’s how you’d react.”

  I was pissed off but unexpectedly struggling to not laugh. My mouth betrayed me. She wrapped me it her arms and said, “God, you’re impossible.”

  Nestled in her damp curls, I felt giddy. “Chalk it up to lack of sleep.”

  “Honey, I saw your boarding pass stub on the floor downstairs. You must have arrived back here by one, at the latest. It’s about five-ten now.”

  My eyes darted to the window. The blinds were nearly closed, but I could see that the sky had turned deep plum.

  “Carly and I decided to postpone dinner till nine. By the way,” she said, pulling me toward her, “Happy Thanksgiving, dar
ling.”

  For the next two hours, she gave me plenty to be thankful for.

  It wasn’t until I was scrubbing myself in the shower that the case tackled me again with a full body blow. I shifted the curtain to one side and bellowed to K.T. the question that I had been reluctant to ask. “Has Carly heard from Amy yet?” I braced myself for the answer.

  “What?” K.T. was still inside, straightening the bed. I rinsed off and repeated the question a full decibel louder. I was too busy chastising myself to hear K.T.’s reply. I shouted to her again and stepped out of the tub.

  “You’re deafer than an old hound dog with a branch stuck in its ear.” K.T. had joined me in the bathroom. “I said she called around noon to say she was at Helen’s. Apparently, they had themselves a night on the town last night. From what I heard, the fight with Carly was pretty messy. I guess after twelve years, your patience can wear out.”

  Toweling down I said, “Remember that twelve years from now,” and almost slipped on the tile.

  “What?” she asked anxiously.

  My mind was already somewhere else. “So Amy’s home now.”

  “Probably. She said she was still planning to make us all a Thanksgiving Day dinner. She just needed some more time alone.”

  “At Helen’s?” I nearly shouted. I started wondering if I really knew Amy at all. Twelve years of friendship suddenly seemed horribly insufficient.

  K.T. frowned. “Of course not. She meant at home. That’s why Carly and I went for a walk.”

  “Did she explain what she and Helen did during this ‘night on the town’?” I had my own theory and it wasn’t a pretty one.

  “Lord, you’re angrier than Carly was. They saw a show, for heaven’s sake. Helen was just trying to distract her, give her a break from all the craziness up here. Personally, I don’t think it was such a bad idea. Even Carly understood after Amy explained everything.”