by Marta Perry
CHAPTER SIX
“I DON’T SUPPOSE I could convince you to go home and let the police handle this situation.” Eileen Davies, Marisa’s agent, had become a good friend over the years, and she didn’t sound optimistic about Marisa’s plans.
“I can’t do that.” Marisa moved to the window of her room, her gaze lingering on the willow tree and the floating shadows it cast even in mid-morning. “If there’s anything I can find out about what happened to my mother… Well, I have to try.”
“I know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt by this.”
Eileen’s often brusque voice softened with sympathy. Marisa could picture her leaning across her always-cluttered desk, a pencil skewered through her wiry dark curls. Eileen was one of the few people who’d heard the whole story of Marisa’s mother, sitting over a late-night dessert during a children’s-book expo.
“Nothing could hurt more than not knowing.” She believed that, despite the nameless dread that filled her when she let her guard down.
“Just be careful, okay? Don’t trust people too readily. This Morgan family, for instance. They might have a very good reason for not wanting the truth to come out.”
True enough. Despite Geneva’s warmth, despite Link’s apparent openness when they’d talked the previous day, she couldn’t take their honesty for granted.
“I’ll be cautious about believing anyone.”
“About the project… Do you want me to talk to the editor and try to get you some extra time?”
“No, I can finish it.” Marisa touched the portfolio that held her sketches. She’d ignored the work for too long. “I’m getting back on the illustrations this afternoon. I can use the distraction.”
“Good. You’re a pro.” There was relief in Eileen’s voice. She’d go to bat for an extension, but she hated to have to do it.
“Yes, well, I’d like to stay an employed pro, so I meet my deadlines.” A gentle tap on the door punctuated her words. “I have to go, Eileen. I’ll check in with you in a few days.”
She clicked off and opened the door. Mary stood there, her hand raised as if to knock again.
“There is someone to see you downstairs. In the parlor, ja?”
Link? Geneva? Well, she wouldn’t find out standing here. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
She took a quick glance in the mirror. She’d put on jeans and a loose shirt in anticipation of working, but it would have to do. Closing the door, she ran lightly down the stairs.
When she reached the parlor door, she came to an abrupt stop. Not one of the Morgans at all, but Adam Byler and another man…middle-aged, slightly balding, with a florid face and a barrel chest that strained at the dress shirt he wore with a lightweight tan suit. Unusual attire for Springville, she realized, and a whisper of unease touched her.
“Ms. Angelo.” Chief Byler stood as she entered, and after a second the other man did the same. “Sorry to bother you so early.”
“The DNA tests—you don’t have results already, surely.” That was impossible, wasn’t it?
“No, no, not yet.” There was something behind Adam Byler’s phlegmatic expression, some emotion she couldn’t identify. “This is our district attorney, Preston Connelly. He’d like to talk with you.”
District attorney. The flicker of apprehension turned to alarm. Why was the district attorney involved in this?
She turned to acknowledge the introduction, to find that the man had moved to close the parlor door. He must have seen her expression, because he smiled slightly.
“Just to make sure we’re not overheard,” he said. “How do you do, Ms. Angelo.”
Marisa nodded, glancing back at Adam. “District attorney? I thought my mother’s disappearance wasn’t considered a criminal case.” Yet, she almost said.
“That’s why I’m here.” Connelly answered for him. “Just to ask a few questions and be sure we’re handling the situation properly. I assume you’ll want to cooperate with us in learning the truth.”
Connelly’s words were pleasant enough, but his eyes were cold. Watchful.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here. To know the truth.”
“Good, good.” He rubbed his hands together…large, well-kept hands, with a gold and ruby ring on the right ring finger. “We’re on the same page, then. Let’s sit down.”
Marisa took her time about pulling up a rocking chair, her mind busy with the possible implications of this visit. Admittedly she didn’t know much about the duties of a district attorney, but was it usual for him to involve himself with a situation that might not even be a criminal matter?
“Now, then.” Connelly planted his hands on his knees, clearly taking the lead in this conversation. “I understand you were surprised when Chief Byler contacted you about finding your mother’s suitcase.”
“Yes.” Strange to think that had only been a few days ago. “Of course I was surprised.”
“You didn’t expect any information about your mother’s disappearance would show up after all this time?” He made that sound vaguely sinister.
“I suppose I thought…hoped…that my mother would contact me one day. As for disappearing, we thought that she had gone back to her family.”
“We?” His eyebrows lifted.
“My father. My grandmother. Apparently she’d said something about doing so.”
I don’t belong here. A far-off voice seemed to echo in her mind. I don’t belong anywhere.
She clasped her hands together, forcing the thought away. Where had that come from, anyway?
“Is that something you remember yourself, or something you were told?”
“Well, I—” The voice seemed to echo in her mind again, thinly, fading. “I’m not sure. After all, I was only five at the time.”
“Five isn’t that young. A five-year-old might know a great deal about what’s going on in the family, for instance. But I see from the case records that the police didn’t even talk to you at the time.”
Chief Byler stirred slightly. “I’m sure they didn’t feel there was any need to upset a child. It all seemed very straightforward.”
“You don’t need to cover for your predecessor, Byler,” Connolly said. “It’s obvious he didn’t take the situation seriously.”
Marisa took advantage of the byplay between the two men to consider Connelly’s comments. Should a five-year-old know more than she seemed to about that time? Her memories, except for fragments of images, didn’t seem to encompass much before the house in Baltimore.
Connelly turned back to her before she found an answer. “Now, Ms. Angelo, just tell us what you remember about the day your mother went away.”
She looked at him blankly. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” His returning stare expressed disbelief. “Come now. You were there. According to the file, you attended kindergarten. Was your mother there when you returned home?”
“I don’t… I’m not sure.”
She tried to grope her way back through the years. She’d ridden the bus to kindergarten, she knew that. She’d come home on the bus every day, too. She’d scurry down the high step of the bus, clutching her papers from the day, eager to show off a star or a sticker.
“You must remember that day. After all, your whole life changed then, didn’t it?” His voice sharpened.
She was suddenly resentful of this stranger and his questions, probing into something that was hers, her private memories of Mammi waiting at the lamp-post in the front yard, reaching out to sweep her into a hug.
Her breath caught. She hadn’t thought of that in years, but suddenly it seemed she could see her mother, see the long denim skirt she always wore with a plain blouse, see the way her face lit with pleasure at the sight of her small daughter.
“I don’t know.” She spoke sharply, intent on that inner vision, unwilling to share it. “I don’t remember. I’m sure, if I’d thought anything was wrong, I’d have told my father at the time.”
“Your father.” He leaned b
ack, something speculative in his dark eyes. “What did he say when you told him about the suitcase?”
She blinked. “I haven’t told him. I haven’t talked to him.”
“Come, Ms. Angelo. Do you really expect us to believe that he’s been out of touch this long?”
The man was a hair away from being openly antagonistic. From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Adam Byler leaning forward in his chair, frowning at Connelly as if about to speak. The room, with its solid Pennsylvania Dutch wood furniture, braided rug and simple muslin curtains seemed an odd place for an interrogation.
“Well?” Connelly snapped the word when she didn’t answer.
She took a breath and tried to find a reservoir of calm. “I’m not sure what you believe, Mr. Connolly, but it happens to be the truth. My father is on a Western trip in his camper. It’s something he always planned to do when he retired.”
“Without a cell phone?” The question dripped with doubt.
“He has a cell phone. But if he’s camping someplace up in the mountains or in the desert, it’s entirely possible that he’s not getting service. I’ve left messages. He’ll call when he gets them.”
He would call.
“That could well be,” Byler said. “I’ve lost cell service camping in places like that, no matter what the cell-phone companies claim.”
Connelly didn’t seem willing to admit that. “Hard to believe, his being out of touch with his only daughter for this long.”
He thought her father had something to do with her mother’s disappearance. Marisa clasped cold hands together. That was what he was really saying.
“I’m not a child, Mr. Connelly. My father and I are on good terms, but we don’t live in each other’s pockets. My father will call me, and when he does, I’ll tell him what’s happened.”
“What did you tell him when he came home the night your mother left?” Connelly’s question snapped at her out of nowhere, leaving her floundering for a moment.
“I don’t know. I’ve already told you I don’t remember.” Her hands were as icy as her heart, but she managed to keep her voice calm. She couldn’t do much more of this. “If that’s everything…” She pushed herself to her feet, pressing the backs of her legs against the chair for support.
Connelly looked as if he’d dispute that, but Byler stood.
“That’s all we need for now, Ms. Angelo. We’ll let you know if we have any further questions.”
She held her breath, waiting for Connelly to overrule him. But he didn’t, and in a moment they were gone, leaving the house empty and still.
Marisa discovered that her legs didn’t want to hold her up any longer. She sank into the rocker, clasping the curved arms until the wood bit into her fingers.
Why now? What had brought the district attorney into the picture? Why was he so antagonistic?
Unfortunately, she could think of plenty of answers. Because he thinks the police are being too low-key. Because he thinks my dad had something to do with my mother’s disappearance.
She might as well stop skirting around it. If they believed her father had something to do with it, then they didn’t think this was a matter of a disappearance. They thought Barbara Angelo was dead.
Please, God, no. The words formed without conscious thought. No.
Was that what she’d been dreading? That her mother was dead and her father had killed her?
A shudder of revulsion shook her. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
She’d been there, Connelly had said. If there was anything to know, her five-year-old self might have known it. So why didn’t she remember?
“BETTER DOUSE YOURSELF thoroughly with this stuff.” Link handed the insect-repellent spray to Marisa.
She looked at it, her expression reluctant. “Is that really necessary? I hate using things like this.”
“It is if you don’t want to risk a tick bite. And maybe Lyme disease.” He was probably overstating the case, but if he had to be responsible for Marisa’s trek through the woods, he didn’t want anything happening to her.
Seeming to accept the lesser of the evils, she began spraying the legs of her jeans. At least she was dressed suitably, wearing a long-sleeve shirt over a T-shirt with the jeans.
He waited, trying to contain his impatience. He’d gotten in a good start on work at the house this morning, but when he’d stopped at home for lunch, Mom had informed him she’d made plans for his afternoon. Marisa was coming over, and Mom expected him to help her find places to sketch.
He’d have objected, but if he didn’t do this, his mother would have. Trey had been right in his assessment of Mom’s propensity for landing herself in the middle of things.
Marisa set the spray on the back porch step and swiftly pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. He supposed the small backpack she wore contained her drawing supplies.
“I’m ready.” She smiled as she said the words.
But there was something not quite right about the way Marisa looked today. Surely she wasn’t still obsessing about the DNA test, was she? Something had put new lines of tension around her mouth and shadowed her eyes.
Not your business, he reminded himself. You’re not responsible for her.
“Okay, let’s go.” Mom had insisted he take a thermos of lemonade, and he slung it by its strap from his shoulder. They weren’t going to deepest Africa, just for a walk in the woods, but it was easier to take it than to argue.
He started off at a quick pace across the yard toward the barn. Beyond it, the trees in the orchard were heavy with apples. And beyond the orchard was the easiest path through the woods.
They walked in silence until they reached the orchard.
“Is this all yours?” Marisa looked up at the laden apple trees with wonderment in her voice. Fallen apples crunched underfoot, and their aroma filled the air with the scent of fall.
“Every last tree, unfortunately. When we were kids, we all had a quota of baskets to pick and lug into the storeroom.” That had usually led to a certain amount of wrangling, as he recalled.
“Do you still do that?” She was a few feet behind him, making him realize how fast he was walking…as if he could walk away from feeling he was saddled with taking care of her.
“Not so much anymore. We keep reminding Mom that it’s not necessary to use every single apple with so few of us to eat them.” Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t very tactful of them. “But Mom still likes to can applesauce and make apple butter, and she’ll give away what we can’t use.”
“That’s very…thrifty.” She sounded a little surprised.
“My parents didn’t believe in waste. And they thought we should learn the importance of work at an early age.” He shrugged. “It’s the way things are in the country. I guess we took it for granted.”
They were nearing the woods now, and he pointed. “See the path? Trey keeps it cut for Mom. She insists on walking, and he says at least this way he knows where to start looking for her. You can take this on your own any time you want.”
They stepped into the shadow of the pine trees, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Marisa shivered, looking around with what he thought was apprehension.
“You okay?”
“Yes, fine.” Her smile just deepened the impression of strain. “I was surprised that it’s so dark here.”
“Once we’re past this stand of pines and hemlock, there’ll be more sunlight coming through the trees.” He looked a little more closely at her face. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“I grew up in a suburb. Parks and playgrounds, but no real woods. I wouldn’t want to get lost out here.”
“You can’t,” he said. “Just stay on the path, and you’ll be fine. And even if you got off the trail, all you’d have to do is walk downhill. Sooner or later you’d get to the road.”
There was more to her tension than that, he thought, but he didn’t intend to pry. Everything he learned about her just brought them
closer, and that was the last thing he wanted.
The pines thinned out, replaced by the mixed deciduous trees that had grown up when this land had been timbered generations ago. Last season’s leaves covered the path, and sunlight slanted through the trees.
Marisa sucked in a breath. “This is lovely. So much better than the setting I’d intended to use.”
“Which was?” They’d reached the low stone wall that was all that was left of the railroad embankment, and he put out a hand to help her up.
“Oh, a park.” She laughed…at herself, he thought. “My editor will thank you. This is going to be much more realistic.” The color had come back to her cheeks, and her eyes lit with enthusiasm, the tension he’d seen earlier ebbing. “That fallen tree is perfect for one of the illustrations. Look at the way the branches arc, and the color of the moss where the sun comes through.”
“If you say so. I just see a fallen tree that should have been cut for firewood.”
“You’re used to it, that’s all.”
“True.” And he’d longed for it when he was overseas, dreamed he was walking this path instead of a dusty road that might well be mined. “This was our backyard when we were kids. Trey and Adam had a fort right over there, and they wouldn’t let us in, so Libby and I built a treehouse that looked down on them.”
“Libby?”
“My sister. Twin, actually. You’d have a lot in common with her. She’s a photojournalist, working on the West Coast right now.”
“Does she look like you?” Marisa seemed to be assessing his claim to have a twin.
“She’s much prettier, as she always reminds me.” He put out a hand to halt her. “Look.”
Twenty yards away a doe stood, her head lifted to nibble the tender shoots on a bush. The delicate curved line of the creature’s neck moved him… Maybe Marisa had him noticing things.
And then he realized it wasn’t just noticing. The deer reminded him of Marisa: the same timid grace, the same wariness in wide brown eyes.
He must have made some involuntary movement, because the doe turned her head, ears coming forward. In an instant she was gone, the white tuft of her tail visible as she fled up the hill toward deeper woods.
