by Sara Rosett
Summer pulled a piece of paper from one of the many pockets on her cargo pants. “I thought this was interesting, too.”
I unfolded the paper. It was a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers.
“This is why you look so pleased.” Abby leaned over the backseat, reading over my shoulder. “Look, there’s Jorge’s name. And that must be his address, an apartment on Robinwood Road. Fourth one down.”
“And here’s Estelle, the woman I talked to at the restaurant,” I said as Abby took the paper.
“She’s on there, too? That’s great. I didn’t have time to read the whole thing, I just grabbed it when I saw Jorge’s name,” Summer said. She glanced over at me quickly with a wide smile. She was fired up. I could tell by the way she gripped the steering wheel and almost bobbed in the seat. Strands of red hair were loose from her bun, and stray curlicues floated around her face.
“There’s more than one page,” Abby said as she flipped to the second sheet. “Listen to this. Bradley Conner Jenkins, Joseph Harold Tickner, Hunter Jacob Myer, and the list goes on. There’s addresses with these names, too, and it sounds like they’re all over the D.C. area. A name from the first page is matched up with one from the second page.”
“These must be the people Wellesley matched with the immigrants. I wonder where she found them and why they’d do it,” I said.
Summer didn’t seem to be too concerned with where Wellesley found the American marriage partners for the illegal immigrants because she said, “The important thing is that we’ve got something that connects Wellesley with Jorge.”
“Right, but I can’t believe you took this, Summer. I know it’s just a piece of paper, but she could accuse us of theft.”
Summer made a face. “No way. She’ll never even know it’s gone. It was in her recycling pile right beside her shredder. That’s where I figured all the good stuff would be. You know how it is, you have stuff to shred, but you end up tossing it in a pile on top of the shredder or beside it and then you shred it all at once. By the time she gets around to shredding, she won’t even remember what she tossed in that pile.”
“Yeah, that’s what I do with my junk mail. I don’t shred it until the pile’s about to fall over.” Abby looked at me and said, “Yes, I’m sure you shred your junk mail when you open it, but that’s not how most people live.”
Sometimes being a professional organizer makes me feel I’m on the outside of things. So I’m a bit compulsive about clutter. So what? I just wish other people didn’t look at me like I was some sort of exotic species in a zoo. I wasn’t that weird, was I, just because I shredded my junk mail immediately? I filed that away for later and said, “Anyway, what are we going to do with this list?”
“We’re going to use it,” Summer said. “We’re going to visit Robinwood Road.”
An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Trip
To-do list (three or more weeks before departure)
Make hotel, airline, and car rental reservations.
Reserve space for pets at kennel.
Schedule an appointment with a vet to update vaccinations for pets, if you’re using a kennel. Most kennels require proof of a current rabies vaccination and kennel cough (Bordetella) vaccine within six months to one year.
Chapter Fourteen
“Not quite in the same league as Wellesley’s place, is it?” I asked as Summer parked in front of the small apartment building. The steep slope of the wooden-shingled mansard roof came to within a few feet of the ground and gave the building a heavy, dark look. Dirt fought with stubby grass in the small yards in front of each building. A few spindly shrubs crouched at the corners of the apartment. Like all the other front doors, number 12 had flaking paint. Dried leaves and dead bugs were piled in the corners of the front porch.
The window beside the front door was dark, but blinking Christmas lights outlined the window next door at number 11. The two doors shared the small concrete pad front porch and I assumed the apartments were probably mirror images of each other.
Summer leaned on the doorbell and we heard it ring beyond the thin door. “So, what were you hoping we’d find?” I asked Summer.
She tried the door handle, but it was locked; then, she peered into the dark window. “I don’t know. A roommate? Someone we could talk to about Jorge.” She pounded on the door a few times.
“We seem to be making a habit of standing on doorsteps demanding entry.” Abby took a few steps off the porch and said, “Let’s go find some dessert.”
Summer knocked on the door a few more times.
“Come on, Summer. There’s nothing here,” Abby said gently.
“Wait!” She flipped open the lid of the black mailbox mounted on the wood siding near the door. “The mail. Maybe…” She pulled out a stack of paper and quickly shuffled through it, beginning with a newsprint advertisement with an unappetizing hot-pink steak on the cover. “Nothing but junk mail.”
Still holding the envelopes and brightly colored advertisements, her arms hung limp at her sides. Her high energy had burned away and she looked worn out. “Ellie, I’ve got to find something…anything that will take the police’s attention off me. I’d just hoped that there would be something.” She banged on the door again.
“I know. There will be something. You have nothing to hide and you’re going to be fine.” I murmured the soothing words, but while I was speaking them the news reporter’s words “person of interest” ran through my mind.
The door to number 11 flew open. “What is wrong with you people?” A short, round woman dressed in an orange sweat suit stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She reminded me of a pumpkin, one of the small, squat ones. Two combs held her long gray hair back from her plump face. The frames of her round glasses caught the shine of the Christmas lights as they flicked on and off. “Just what do you people think you’re doing? Standing out here yakking and pounding on doors? I got my grandbaby asleep in here.”
“We’re so sorry,” I said.
Summer stepped forward. “I apologize. We’re trying to find out about the man who lived here. I’d met him a few times, but didn’t know him well. Did you know him?”
The woman used a chubby finger to push her glasses up higher on the bridge of her nose; then, she tilted her chin up and looked at us carefully through her bifocals. She must have decided we were okay to talk to because she folded her hands across her ample tummy and said, “That was real sad about him. We saw it on the news. I didn’t know him. I only come a couple of nights a week to watch my grandbaby while my daughter’s working. Didn’t really know anything about him, ’cept he done yard work and painting, stuff like that. Now, Danielle, she said he was a fine neighbor. Kept to hisself. Never give her no trouble, making noise or anything.” She gave us a severe look.
Summer didn’t let the look intimidate her. “Did he have any family or friends around here?”
“Don’t know. Never had any visitors, except that one time.” The woman shook her head and tilted her chin up again. “At first, I thought you was her.”
“But I’ve never been here,” Summer said, going into defense-mode.
“She looked kinda like you, same color hair and all, but up close you’re much younger and prettier. She came banging on the door late at night, just like you. I came out here to shush her, too, but by then he’d opened the door and she was on her way inside. That was the only time there was any noise from over there. Well, except when she left. She was cryin’. You can hear pretty much everything through these doors.”
“So she had red hair?” I asked, just to confirm. The woman nodded. “Was she tall or short?”
“About the same height as her,” she said, looking over at Summer again.
“Is there anything else you can remember about her? Did you hear a name?”
“No. She was inside almost as soon as I got out here.”
“What about her car?” Summer asked.
“That was one luxurious car. A Merced
es, I think. Black. I noticed it at the curb because, well, this isn’t a neighborhood where you see many of those and it kinda stood out, too, because it didn’t have any of those fool lights or spinners on it that young people are so crazy about now.”
“How long ago was this?” I asked.
“Oh, I’d say it was sometime in February.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else we could ask her, so Summer said, “Thanks for talking to us. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Rebecca Matthews.”
“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Matthews.”
She stepped back inside the apartment and we turned to walk down the sidewalk, but then I turned back quickly and caught her before she shut the door. “Mrs. Matthews, have the police talked to you about this?”
“Well, sure. They was here a couple a days ago. Never did see nothing like that. Police tape and everything, just like on TV.”
“And you told them about the redheaded woman?”
“Oh yes.”
Great. That couldn’t be good for Summer. Maybe that’s why the police were calling her a person of interest.
“Were they interested in anything else?”
“Not really. Once I told them about that lady they finished up pretty quick.”
Friday
The thud of the hotel door closing woke me the next morning. I rubbed my eyes and when my fingertips came back sooty I realized I hadn’t taken my makeup off last night. I scanned the room. Towels heaped on the floor and a razor and shaving cream rested in a puddle of water on the bathroom counter. Then I saw a notepad propped up by the phone on my nightstand. Mitch’s bold writing stood out even in the dim light coming in through the fissure in the drapes.
Didn’t want to wake you since you were sleeping so hard. I’ll call you later.
P.S. No news on the move.
I stretched against the smooth sheet and burrowed deeper into the fluffy pillows. That was one great bonus of pregnancy—I slept like the dead. I’d completely missed Mitch’s alarm and the never-insignificant noise of him getting ready.
After we talked to Mrs. Matthews last night, a weariness had swept over me that I swear went all the way down to the marrow in my bones. Pregnancy seemed to be a state of extremes for me. Either I was feeling great—euphoric—or I was famished or I was so exhausted that I could barely crawl into bed. Nothing came on in increments, it seemed. I’d felt so drained last night that we’d bagged our plans for dessert and Summer drove us back to the hotel, but I didn’t remember the drive at all since I dozed the whole way. Then I’d staggered into the elevator and down the hall to our room and collapsed. I heard Mitch come in later. I have no idea how much later—it could have been ten minutes or two hours—but I snuggled up and reentered REM as fast as I could.
I shifted around, enjoying the warmth of the floaty duvet cocoon and luxuriating in the knowledge that I didn’t have to get up. I decided I’d skip sightseeing today. I thought Mount Vernon was on the schedule, but I had no doubt that we’d seen the last of Wellesley. I figured I should probably call the rest of the group and let them know that we were on our own today. And then what should I do about Wellesley? Did I have a responsibility to tell someone about her marriage scheme? I thought of Estelle’s worn face. Could I be the one to ruin her hopes of staying in America? Would she be deported?
The phone interrupted my thoughts. “Hey,” Abby’s upbeat tone came over the line. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No. I was just about to call everyone and tell them Wellesley won’t be showing up today.”
“Already did it.”
“Did they ask why?” No telling what Abby had told them.
“No. I think I phrased it in a way that it sounded like Wellesley had an unavoidable conflict come up.”
“Yeah. She hates us now.”
“True, but it’s not slowing them down. Irene, Gina, and Nadia are going out on their own. Gina got the concierge to hire them a car. I told them to go ahead without us.”
“You don’t have to hang out with me. You can go, if you want. I’m not going to do anything today.”
There was a short pause and then Abby said, “Today would be a good day for that. It’s pretty dreary and overcast outside, but don’t you remember promising Summer to check everything in Emma’s room today? She reminded you of it when she dropped us off last night.”
I sighed. Good-bye, blanket cocoon. “I forgot. What time did she want us there?”
“She said she’d pick us up at nine.”
I glanced at the clock and threw back the covers. “Gotta go. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
I showered and dressed in record time and made it downstairs at five after nine, so I was pretty peeved when nine-thirty rolled around and Summer still hadn’t shown up. “She’s not answering her cell phone,” I told Abby, who was munching on a bagel she’d bought at the Starbucks cart in the lobby.
I said, “I’ve a good mind to go upstairs and go back to sleep.” I’d had plenty of time to check my messages. None from Summer. One message from Debbie, saying that her son had now come down with chicken pox and she’d call me later when she had time to breathe. I exhaled a sigh of relief. That would buy me at least one more day to mull over what to tell her about her dad. Honestly, I hadn’t even had time to think about it.
The second message was from Livvy, which had totaled two words: good morning. My mom’s voice followed Livvy’s squeaky one. They were going to the beauty shop and they’d call me later. I imagined Livvy with pink nails and bows in her hair.
Abby grinned. “Don’t go all hormonal on me,” she teased. She knew how I felt about people tossing that phrase around. “You know you won’t be able to sleep now. Why don’t we get a taxi over to the Archers’ house? Maybe she forgot her phone or the battery’s low.”
Abby was right. I was awake now. We might as well go to the Archers’ house. I popped the last of my blueberry bagel into my mouth and dug through my purse for Summer’s address. “She could have at least borrowed the Archers’ phone to call us,” I said.
As we paced through the lobby, a young man stepped in my path. “Where is she?” he demanded.
For a second I thought he was asking about Summer, but then he said, “Where’s Lee?”
I took a step back. “I don’t know anyone named Lee,” I said and moved to go around him.
He shifted sideways and blocked me again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Abby beckoning to one of the hotel desk clerks, a large guy with black hair.
“She’s been here every morning. Your guide. Where is she?”
“Oh, you mean Wellesley? You call her Lee?” He didn’t answer me. Instead he untangled the cords attached to an iPod from his hooded sweatshirt. “You were here the other day, weren’t you?” I asked, just to keep talking until the desk clerk got closer.
He stuffed the music player and cords into one of the pockets on his baggy jeans and crossed his arms. “Is she here or not?”
He was lanky and tall, over six feet and his light brown hair was cut short. I had to tilt my head back to look at his face, which was sprinkled with a few pimples. With his arms crossed loosely, he had a confident air that broadcast the arrogance of adolescence.
“No, she’s not here,” I said. The desk clerk crossed the gleaming floor of the lobby toward us. “In fact, she’s not our tour leader anymore.”
The young guy spun around, cursing, and slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. I noticed a diamond-shaped tattoo surrounded with circles on the inside of his wrist.
Abby rolled her eyes and said, “Such a limited vocabulary. You’d think he could be a bit more creative than that.”
Was this a technique she used to deal with her students? Although I hoped cursing didn’t start in third grade.
He turned back to us, hands on his hips. His conceited attitude had slipped away and he looked worried. “You got a phone number, an e-mail, anything, for her?”
The d
esk clerk arrived, “Everything okay here, ladies?”
I looked back at the young guy as I answered, “Yes, I think so, but we’ll call you if anything changes.” The clerk nodded and moved a few feet away to a display of maps and brochures at the concierge desk. He began stacking and adjusting papers that were perfectly straight.
The young man leaned in and said in a pleading tone, “Dude, look, I got to get a hold of her. I got to.”
I pulled out Wellesley’s card from my purse. “This is the phone number from her Web site.” Even though she’d been less than honest with us, I couldn’t give her home address to this guy.
He grabbed the card, pulled out his phone, and punched a few buttons. “Oh, man. This is the same number I’ve been calling for a couple of days. She’s not answering.” He shoved the card back at me, but Abby plucked it from his hand.
“What’s your name?” she asked in her authoritative teacher’s voice.
“Joe Tickner, ma’am.”
Abby didn’t look too happy with the designation of ma’am that he’d tacked on to the end of his reply, but I thought it was probably better than dude. She continued. “If we see her we’ll tell her you’d like to get in touch. Any message?”
He opened his mouth and shut it again. His gaze dropped and he looked uncomfortable.
“What would you like to speak to her about?” Abby prompted.
He hesitated, then said, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Joe Tickner,” I said and they both turned toward me. I’d been going over his name in my mind. “Joseph Harold Tickner? By any chance, were you supposed to get married soon?”
Now he looked scared. “I’ve got to go.” He turned away.
“We’re not going to do anything to hurt you. We won’t turn you in or anything,” I hurried to reassure him before he sprinted away. “We just want to know more about Wellesley. We know she arranges marriages. Will you tell us the details? She won’t talk to us either and we need to know what’s going on. My sister-in-law…Well, it’s a long story. How about this? It’s way too early for a drink, but why don’t we buy you breakfast and you can tell us about Wellesley?” I said. He didn’t actually look old enough to legally consume alcohol anyway, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to let him think I’d considered buying him a drink. His gaze ran over the long, decadent breakfast buffet.
