by Jaye Maiman
I felt like Alice stumbling through the looking glass. Gone were the pristine peach walls and polished wood rails, the brass pedestal ashtrays, the gallery of impressionist art highlighted with halogen spots, the piped-in Mozart. Instead, the walls muttered at me: a harsh male laugh, the discordant murmurs of conversations that knew no privacy, and a clanging piano that cried out for hands that could caress rather than cudgel the keys.
I was standing a few doors away from the day room. Now that I was this close to finding Noreen’s sister, my nerve was failing me. In the distance a metal door slammed, releasing a gaggle of goose bumps along my arms. I spun around, suddenly ravenous for the artificial peace of the public Spruce Hills. Only after breathing deep, my palms braced against a wall, did my resolve return. I rushed back down the corridor and glanced inside the day room — a gymnasium-like space in which games, books, a battered piano and a nineteen-inch television had been tossed like bread crumbs into a public square populated by denatured pigeons.
The air stank of perspiration, sour milk, and popcorn. Close to thirty individuals were scattered throughout the room, each thoroughly engaged in his or her own tortured world. A man my age was seated at the piano, his shoulder-length brown hair whipping the air as he slammed his fingers against the same few keys over and over. To my left an elderly woman who reminded me of my own mother lay on the floor, fastidiously fingerpainting an uncanny self-portrait. It was like entering a twilight zone version of a kindergarten class. The only attendant in sight was parked in a tattered recliner, intent on watching Oprah.
I had no trouble skirting him. I positioned myself next to a pillar and scanned the room. Just then someone tugged at my jacket. I turned around, ready to bolt if I had to.
“Hi ya, honey.” It was the fingerpainter. She was a good foot shorter than me, but she had the voice of a six-foot-four trucker. “Didn’t think I noticed you, huh, Agnes? Not much escapes these eyes,” she said, gesturing with a paint-smeared hand to pupils that were ringed with a milky white substance. Her pale skin was fiercely freckled with age marks, but amazingly free of wrinkles. As a matter of fact, her flesh seemed so smooth and supple that my hand ached to touch her cheek. She smiled coyly, a smile that belied her years, then all at once she lashed her finger across my cheek. I could smell the paint even before I saw her green-tipped finger prime for another attack. I stepped back and she cackled. “‘Fraid of a little waterpaint, honey?”
Impulsively, I reached for the plastic jar in her left hand and dabbed my index finger in the inky liquid. “Not if you aren’t, grandma,” I replied, wagging my finger at her in warning.
She roared. “Oooh, Agnes, you’re a sly one.” I snapped my head toward the attendant’s chair. He hadn’t heard. Or didn’t care to hear. “Who are you here to see?” she asked, taking the paint back from me with a goodhearted chuckle.
“Melanie Van Eyck.”
“Ah, yes. I know Melanie well,” she said with such lucidity that I found myself wondering how she had ended up here. As if she read my thoughts, she blurted, “This is the dumpster, Agnes, that’s what this place is. Some people would rather buy a new television than try to fix the one they got. So they dump the old and forget it ever existed. Here, they do that to people. My daughter hasn’t visited me in two years.” She shook her head, lips pursed, eyes still gleaming at me mischievously. “But I’m better off than her.” She pointed her chin toward the barred window. I followed her gaze and shivered.
The fingerpainter disappeared as I focused on Melanie. She was perched on the windowsill, a deck of cards spread in front of her. She was ten, maybe twenty pounds heavier than Noreen, but in many other ways, her mirror image. Even from across the room, I could see how her pale blue eyes resembled Noreen’s. Somehow, despite her size, she was a delicate woman. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a loose knot and her pale skin seemed damp. She wore the same sea-foam green, Spruce Hills-stamped gown as the fingerpainter. I glanced around. Most of the other patients were clad in conventional clothes. Excluding the fingerpainter I had dubbed grandma, the gowned patients seemed the most withdrawn, the most defeated. Maybe grandma would end up that way as well, I speculated with sadness.
I turned my attention back to Melanie. She had gathered up the cards and was now shuffling them with the facility of a cardsharp. I approached her hesitantly. She didn’t look up, even when I was near enough to smell the sour scent rising from her skin. I tood there silently, watching her surprisingly long fingers flip through the deck, snapping cards into place, seven across. On her first deal, she hit the ace of hearts. The smallest of smiles flickered across her face as she slapped the card down onto the sill.
“Good start,” I ventured.
She didn’t respond verbally or physically. I had the sense that she was used to having her space invaded.I decided to take a different tack. “Do you mind if I watch while you play?”
Her hand paused in midair and I felt my throat catch. Slowly she raised her eyes to mine, then she read my name tag. “Are you going to give me a test?” she asked in a voice that sounded eerily like Noreen’s, except much younger. Judging from her voice alone, I’d have guessed her age as fifteen, sixteen tops. From my investigation, I knew she was actually a few years older than I.
I shook my head and sat down on the sill, just beyond the ace of hearts. “Would you mind talking with me?”
She laughed—a bitter, croaking sound that made my blood boil. What the hell had John Finnegan and Andrew Van Eyck done to her as a child? “Everybody talks, talks, talks,” she said in a singsong manner.
I stared at her hard, until our eyes locked. “Melanie, listen to me carefully. I need your help.”
She looked puzzled. Her hands caressed the cards absentmindedly as she weighed my words. Then, unexpectedly, her eyes opened wide and filled with fear. “Uh-oh. Danny’s in trouble again. I told him not to hurt anyone, but he wouldn’t listen.”
A fever swept over me. “Melanie, what did Danny do?”
“Never tell. Never tell.” She repeated the words over and over, like a well-trained bird. With a sharp glance in my direction, she returned to the cards. I backed off until she had gone through the entire deck twice. When she was out of moves, her eyes flooded. “Danny didn’t want to hurt mommy. He loved her. That was the bad part,” she said through her tears.
I leaned closer, my pulse pounding so loudly in my ears I could hardly hear myself speak. “The fire wasn’t an accident, Melanie, was it?” I whispered.
Her head snapped up, then swiveled toward the attendant. “Don’t tell. Shhh.” She put her finger on my mouth. I fought the urge to kiss her hand, to cradle her in my arms.
How had K.T. survived the horror of her youth? How had I?
I grasped her hand and said, “Don’t worry. This is just between us. Danny started the fire, didn’t he?”
Her face opened up like a sky spilling its weight after a relentless heat wave. “You know!” She almost smiled.
“Yes. But I don’t know why. Can you tell me?” She glanced down at our hands. She was sweating profusely. I squeezed her palm tighter. “Danny said tell me. It’s okay now.”
Her eyes sought mine with greedy surprise. “You know Danny?”
I nodded.
“He’s going to come for me any day now. He promised.” She swept the cards to the floor, shimmied toward me, then pressed her mouth to my ear. “First, he’s going to take care of Andrew.”
The reverend. Her stepfather.
I whispered back. “The way he took care of your father?”
Instantly, her arms circled my neck and she was sobbing horribly. I peeked over her shoulder and saw the attendant finally rousing himself. I had to get out of there quick. But Melanie was clinging to me now. I pressed my palms against her arms and pulled away, then I kissed her cheek.
“Everything’s going to be okay soon, Mel. I promise.” I cursed myself for lying as I made a beeline for the door.
Chapter Fifteen
I veered onto the shoulder, suddenly grateful for the cellular phone that Dean had installed in his car. My heart was still racing when K.T. finally answered.
“I’m closing in, K.T.” I shouted into the phone, not giving her a second to speak. “The trace won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible. Obviously, Daniel’s changed his name. But I think he’s someone I already know. I wonder...”
D for Douglas. I felt my heart skip.
“Jill can do some of the data search. I may need to stay here a day or two. I’ll canvas the neighborhood Daniel lived in before he disappeared. If that doesn’t work—”
“If you’ll shut up for a minute, you may be interested in hearing what I have to say!” K.T. was agitated, I realized a little too late.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
The problem was that I wasn’t really sorry. I wanted to get off the phone and race over to city hall and the county courthouse. Right now, I needed access to public records: voter registration rolls, car registration records—
K.T.’s voice crackled into my ear. “Someone named Lisa called here looking for you.”
Lisa? Who the hell—
“Maggie contacted her this morning.”
Shit. Maggie’s sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous. “What did she say?”
“Finally I have your attention.” K.T. sighed. “Where are you?”
“K.T.! What did Lisa say?”
“You first.”
I gritted my teeth and answered her.
“God. The reception’s so clear.”
“We can rhapsodize over modern electronics some other day. What did—”
“Lisa say?” She finished the question for me. “Maggie’s in Pennsylvania. She told Lisa that she’s out of cash and can’t use any of her credit cards anymore. She asked Lisa for a loan.”
So much for confidentiality. I wondered what had compelled Lisa to contact me.
“Did she tell Lisa why she was running?”
“Not that I know of. To tell you the truth, Robin, she was so nervous it scared me. When you talked about the case, it was distantly intriguing. A puzzle to be solved. But hearing this woman’s panic...brrr. It gave me the shivers.”
K.T.’s words worried me. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to handle the pressures of being with a private detective. I had never thought about how my work might affect someone else. When I spoke again, I felt edgy. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, plenty. Lisa said to tell you that Maggie seemed drunk. She also wanted to make it clear that the only reason she called you at all was because she’s afraid that the stress of covering for Maggie would send her off the edge herself.”
“Did she actually say the word ‘covering’?”
K.T. hesitated. “I’m pretty sure. Why?”
Something was troubling me, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. I deflected K.T.’s question and started to ask one of my own, but she stopped me. “Let me finish. The two of them plan to rendezvous sometime tonight. Maggie’s supposed to call back with the details between seven and eight.”
It was nearly half past four now. I slapped the dashboard impatiently as K.T. continued to talk. “One last thing. Jill Zimmerman called you. She said you need to contact the office pronto. It’s urgent.”
“Damn. I’m hanging up, K.T.”
I barely registered her goodbye as I disconnected. A second later, as Jill picked up the line, K.T.’s parting words sank in: “I’m frightened for you, honey.”
I covered my burning eyes with a damp palm and barked into the phone. “What’s up, padre?” My tone was a hell of a lot more cavalier than I felt.
“Listen, John Wayne redux, I’m solving this whole stupid case for you, so act like a mensch for a minute, okay?”
Despite my mood, I laughed. “I love you, Jill, you know that?” I surprised us both. Why had I said that?
She grumbled an abashed retort, then got back to business. “I’ll spare you the details of my impeccable investigation and give you the bottom line: George Morris died of a cardiac arrest. While driving. Guess where?”
“Canadensis?”
“Bingo. Route three-ninety, to be exact. But you were close enough. And now, for the tenthousand-dollar prize, can you name the coroner on record?”
I held my breath. Jill tick-tocked in my ear gleefully. For her, it was a lark. But I knew these people. “If it was Canadensis, it had to be Douglas Marks.”
Faint applause trickled over the phone. “Bravo, detective. You win the prize.”
I wasn’t as sure as Jill. “Did Morris have a prior heart condition?” I asked.
“Not yet confirmed, oh captain mine. But it will be, have no fear. Dougie boy is quickly climbing the charts in my book.”
Jill was feeling cocky. Still, I couldn’t shake that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I glanced at the clock and quickly updated Jill. Then I started the car up. “I’m heading back to Canadensis now,” I said to explain the sudden jolt in our connection. I pulled into the road. There was something perverse about driving and talking on the telephone. “Maybe Doug and Danny are one and the same,” I said, fumbling for the headlight switch. After all, if Doug really did have acting experience—”
“I don’t get it,” Jill persisted. “Why do you assume that Daniel’s the murderer?”
“Too many connections. Van Eyck’s suspicious death. Morris’s adoption search. His sudden death. The ransacking of Noreen’s sister’s apartment. Besides, we already know he’s capable of murder.”
“Just don’t jump to conclusions too fast, Rob,” Jill said, sounding increasingly unsure herself. “You said you noticed a resemblance between Maggie and Noreen. How do you know she isn’t involved in this? Maybe she and Dougie were, you know, bot-a-boom-bot-a-bing, and Noreen caught on. Then again, I’m not sure Fred is out of the picture either. And Manny—”
A deer darted across the road and I had to brake suddenly to miss it. “Look, Jill, I’m not good at rubbing my belly and patting my head at the same time. I’ll catch up with you later.”
With the telephone back in the cradle at last, I floored the pedal and headed for Telham Village.
After twenty minutes of watching my headlights illuminate one evergreen after another, I found myself again trying to sort through the events of this too-long day, starting with the role play exercise in Dean’s office. That’s when I remembered. I had asked him to press Doug for the name of the person who had authorized Noreen’s cremation. I grabbed the phone and tried to dial Dean. After three wrong numbers, I called K.T. at the cabin. Her voice was shaky. “What’s wrong?” I asked right away, forgetting to even say hello.
“There’s another storm coming.”
I wasn’t sure if she was being evasive or metaphorical. And I didn’t have time to find out. I explained the situation and asked her to contact Dean.
“He’s here. Hold on.”
“How come you’re there?” I asked him when he took the receiver from K.T..
“I tried calling the cellular phone a few times and I couldn’t get you. I started to worry, so I stopped by the cabin. K.T. filled me in on what’s happening,” he said. Then in a lighter tone, “You’re a lucky woman to be coming home to her.”
I didn’t appreciate his comment on my domestic life, but I let it fly for now. “Have you talked to Douglas yet?”
“I tried to, but his assistant told me Doug’s out of town for the day. From what Michael said, I gathered the decision was pretty impromptu. He should be back early tomorrow. Why?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “You sure?”
Now he was worried. “Why? Robin, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t go into the details now, but let me just say I don’t think you should mention Noreen’s cremation to him. At least, not yet.”
The phone line went dead for a moment. “Christ. You suspect him, don’t you? Not Doug, for heaven’s sake. It doesn’t make any sense. Manny had the most to gain. And Fred —”
I cut him off. I was sick of speculation. The case was muddy enough without everyone poking in a stick and stirring up more dirt. I repeated my warning.
“When are you coming back?” he blurted.
I steered around a pit in the road, swerving a little too far into the oncoming traffic lane. “I’m on my way home now. Why?” If I didn’t focus on my driving soon, I’d never make it back to the cabin.
“I need my car tonight, if it’s possible. Will you be back by five-thirty?”
I checked the time, cursing myself for agreeing to exchange cars. What I didn’t need now was more pressure. I clenched the wheel hard and said, “Six-thirty at the latest. If you let me get off this damn phone.”
“Great.”
A light rain had started and I knew the snow wasn’t far behind. I stretched my neck to one side until it cracked, then floored the gas.
The twin blue spruce trees that mark the entrance to Telham shivered in the headlights’ glare. As the branches shuddered in the intermittent wind, a thin coat of frost cracked and floated to the ground. Even with the heater on, I was freezing. Yet the car interior was anything but cold.
My internal alarm had not stopped buzzing. With unsettling conviction, I knew this case was reaching critical mass. Something was about to break. I was getting too close, learning too much. What bothered me most, though, was the nagging suspicion that I had missed something. Whoever was behind Noreen’s death was extraordinarily clever. He — or she — had deflected my investigation over and over. I had a sinking feeling that Manny was meant to be the fall guy. The problem was, she was just too easy to suspect. The more I thought of it, the more disturbed I became about the airline tickets I found on the floor of the Bronco. If Manny was in fact the murderer, she would have been gone a long time ago. If the tickets were in fact a ruse, it might mean the killer was getting jittery and a little sloppy.
It was just a matter of time before he’d strike again. And I had to be numero uno on his hit list, especially if my hunch about Daniel Finnegan was correct.
