by Susan Conant
Steve refilled our wine glasses. For a few minutes, we watched the dogs. Rowdy and Sammy ran figure eights around the yard before running up to me for neck massages and gentle thumps on the flanks. Imitating the Sphinx, India lay on the ground with her eyes on Steve, and love-hungry Lady nuzzled him and begged for pats even when he was petting her.
Eventually, Steve said, “You know, Holly, Quinn took an awful long time to get to Vertex. Those were his wedding presents, his and Rita’s, and it’s their house.”
“And his drug samples. Rowdy, Sammy is my beloved dog, too, so please don’t shove him away. He could’ve felt guilty about leaving the samples just lying around. And if Quinn picked up a poker and smashed someone over the head with it—”
“It would be just like him not to admit it. But Quinn was alone there—except for Uncle Oscar—just after we left, when it wasn’t all that dark out. Wouldn’t a burglar wait until later? But maybe not. There are daytime burglaries.”
Steve excused himself and returned with a notebook computer.
“The dreaded timeline,” I said.
“I’m a systematic guy.” He gave me that smile of his.
“You have the cutest smile.”
Ignoring me, he entered information in his timeline. “Seven twenty. All of us except Quinn and Oscar left. We got to Vertex at maybe seven thirty. Quinn must’ve walked faster than our whole group did, so he left the house at seven forty.”
“So Quinn was alone there, except for Uncle Oscar, from seven twenty to seven forty. What was he doing for twenty minutes?”
“Vicky’d been nagging everyone about checking on Oscar, and Quinn said he’d do it.”
“I remember,” I said. “Yes. When Quinn volunteered to check on Oscar, I remember thinking that he’d been stuck with Vicky on the way home from airport and that he wanted an excuse to get a break from her. Who could blame him?”
“Not me,” Steve said. “Okay, so at seven forty-five, we were all at Vertex. Who left first? Zara?”
“Yes. Vicky was being worse than ever, so Izzy alerted. And then Zara left.”
“To come here and get her Nikon.”
Instead of saying that I’d seen the Nikon in her purse when we’d been walking to Rita and Quinn’s, I said, “And right after that, immediately, I think, Monty got up.”
“To go to the men’s room,” Steve said. “He asked me where it was.”
“Where is it? The ladies’ is in the cellar.”
“In the back. It’s down a corridor, near the kitchen.”
“He was gone a long time,” I said. “Fifteen minutes? About that. Just about long enough to go to Rita and Quinn’s, discover the burglar, attack him, and get back to Vertex.”
“That would be cutting it close. And why would Monty have gone back there at all?”
“I have no idea. Why else was he gone for so long?”
Steve shrugged. After keyboarding for a few seconds, he said, “So, Monty got back to our table at eight fifteen. Zara wasn’t there for another fifteen minutes. She left at eight and didn’t get back until eight thirty. Now that’s a long time.”
“Not for someone who’s escaping a mother like Vicky. And maybe she left to get medication of some kind and waited for it to kick in.”
“She’d have had it with her,” Steve said, “and it wouldn’t work that fast.”
“If Zara had done it, she’d have taken pictures and posted them on Facebook.” I shifted his focus. “Vicky left as soon as Zara got back. Remember? She said that someone had to check on Uncle Oscar. And she was gone maybe twenty minutes.”
Staring at the computer screen and typing, he said, “Vicky returns at eight forty-five.”
“Or later,” I said. “She had enough time. Well, if she hurried. And then Monty left Vertex for good at about nine fifteen, and the rest of us had dessert and left maybe fifteen minutes later. No, more than that. We had dessert, and Quinn paid the bill. And then Zara walked Izzy, and you and I went home. It would’ve taken Rita and Quinn and Vicky and MaryJo maybe ten minutes to walk home. So Monty had plenty of time to grab the poker and hit the burglar.”
“And then he stood there and watched the burglar walk out or stagger out with everything that got stolen?”
“Well, if you put it that way—”
“What other way is there to put it?”
“Steve, this timeline is a waste of time. It’s a waste-of-timeline. All it really shows is what we knew all along, and that’s that the person who was in the house all along was—”
“Oscar.”
“Uncle Oscar,” I said.
chapter fifteen
When I took out the trash the next morning, I caught sight of Elizabeth McNamara, who lives in the house next to Rita and Quinn’s. Instead of just waving hello, Elizabeth hailed me, and when I’d made my way to her driveway, she said, “Holly, could you do me a favor?”
“Of course,” I said. “Do you need help getting something to your car?”
Elizabeth was a pure Cambridge type of the old school, even to the extent of driving a venerable Volvo station wagon. The Volvo’s tailgate was open, and the interior was packed with two medium-size Vari Kennels, a couple of suitcases, a variety of cardboard boxes, and a big Styrofoam cooler. Elizabeth had her two pulis on leash. Well, the Hungarian plural is pulik, but since my entire Hungarian vocabulary consists of the names of dog breeds—kuvasz, komondor, vizsla—it’s a bit affected to burst into apparently fluent Hungarian when all I’m doing is referring to my neighbor’s dogs. In fact, it’s exactly the sort of thing Quinn would do.
Anyway, pulis, aka pulik, are medium-size herding dogs of Hungarian origin notable for their long corded coats, and Elizabeth’s adult puli, Persimmon, had a splendidly corded black coat, whereas the darling little black male was too young to have grown the dreadlocks he’d eventually sport. Elizabeth herself, a petite woman, had a lovely human version of a coat, namely, beautiful curly white hair. On this drizzly morning, her hair looked even fuller and curlier than usual, and the dampness made her pale skin dewy. On her feet were fair-trade flats hand-embroidered by artisan women in Mexico, as I happened to know because I’d seen the same shoes on Facebook. Most of Elizabeth’s clothing and accessories, including her bright blue scarf and silver earrings, had been handcrafted in Third World countries, but her yellow rain slicker was from good old L.L. Bean.
“Thank you, Holly,” she said. “Everything’s in the car except Persimmon and The Baby.” The puppy presumably had another name, but I’d never heard it. “I’m going to Vermont for a week, and I wondered whether you and Steve could just be aware that I’m gone. I’ve set the alarm, and someone’s dealing with the mail, but could you keep your eyes open? With a burglary right next door—”
Persimmon nuzzled my hand, and I petted her. She and I were friends.
“Of course. I walk the dogs by here all the time, and I’m at Rita’s a lot.”
Elizabeth collected quilts, and she and her late husband, Isaac, had amassed a big and undoubtedly valuable collection of folk art. It occurred to me that her house would’ve been a more lucrative target for a burglar than Rita and Quinn’s had been.
“I’m a little unnerved,” Elizabeth said. “I was home when the burglar was there. The dogs and I were in and out of the yard.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I didn’t pay much attention. There are people staying with Rita, so I just assumed that anyone there was one of her guests.”
“You know that Willie was stolen? Or let loose? He ended up in Watertown. It’s not clear how.”
“Rita told me. And the burglar is dead, poor thing. Rita is such a dear person, isn’t she! She’s upset that he died.”
“She is a dear person,” I agreed. “Elizabeth, did you happen to hear Willie bark that night?”
“A couple of times. I noticed because when he’s healthy, he’s a good watchdog, and I thought to myself, ‘Well, Willie’s feeling like himself again!’”
“Do remember what time?”
“Eightish, I think. Then a couple of times right after that.”
“And later? Eight thirty? Nine?”
“Not that I remember. But I might not have noticed. I’m used to a little barking.” She smiled at Persimmon and The Baby. “It doesn’t bother me. Not the way bad language does.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not blaming Rita and Quinn. We can’t choose our relatives, and a wedding is a wedding. Sometimes they have to be invited, like it or not.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But I haven’t heard them swearing.”
“Well, you won’t hear me repeat what I overheard. And that woman! The one with the high-pitched voice.” Elizabeth shook head. “The way it carries!”
I nodded. “Did you hear her that night? Two nights ago?”
To my surprise, Elizabeth said, “Talking to her boyfriend. At her age! I was disgusted. I won’t repeat what she said, either.”
“Elizabeth, she’s married. She’s been married for a long time.”
“Is her husband’s name Al?”
“It’s Dave,” I said.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “there you go.”
chapter sixteen
If the people in question hadn’t been Rita’s father and her aunt, Rita would have been the first person I’d have told about Elizabeth’s revelation. As it was, I had to settle for Steve, who is useless for what he dismisses as girl talk. There is, however, no one more useful than Steve when it comes to cutting dogs’ nails. When I got home, he and Rowdy were sitting companionably on the kitchen tile, and as I told Steve all about my conversation with Elizabeth, he casually clipped every one of Rowdy’s nails—Rowdy’s black nails—without using treats and without quicking even one nail. Damn! I like to imagine that I’m the dog maven in the family, but Steve is the one with X-ray vision, the one who sees the invisible vein in a black nail and never cuts into it. I can trim nails, but I can’t do it effortlessly. Still, despite his nail-trimming gift, he was a captive audience.
“Vicky and Al!” I exclaimed. “You want some coffee?” I put on the kettle. “No? Vicky and Al! Steve, that horrible woman is having an affair with Rita’s father. And you know what?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “And Uncle Oscar knows. I’m sure he does. I thought that he was confused, but he isn’t. Steve, what I heard from Uncle Oscar is that Vicky and Al dated before Al married Erica.” I got out a mug and measured my favorite coffee, Bustelo, into a filter.
“Maybe you should have herbal tea instead,” Steve said. “Or milk.”
“Am I going too fast for you? Erica is Rita’s mother. Vicky’s sister. Al, Rita’s father, went out with Vicky, but he married Erica. And Vicky married Dave. Zara’s father. Erica and Al. Vicky and Dave. Or so I thought! And I thought that Uncle Oscar was vague and disoriented. Disoriented in time. Confusing the present with the past. But he isn’t. He’s right. The old romance has rekindled. What a mess!”
“Soap opera,” Steve said. “Oh, Quinn called. The story he’s telling Rita is that he burned his hand moving the grill. And Zara found a picture of Frank Sorensen online. She sent the link. It’s a group picture of hockey players.”
“Waltham! Yes, hockey’s big in Waltham and Watertown. There’s a rink right near Pignola’s.”
“She thinks he’s the same guy who tried to steal Izzy.”
“John asked about that. And I’ve wondered. But I still don’t understand why he’d take Willie if he’d already seen Izzy. Could Zara be wrong? Maybe she wants to think that it was Frank Sorensen. If so, then the guy who tried to steal Izzy is dead, and she doesn’t need to worry that he’ll try again.”
“Like I said, it’s not some close-up picture of his face. She could be seeing what she wants to see.”
I nodded. “That’s what Rita will think. And it probably doesn’t matter.” Then I resumed my narrative, which was of more interest to me than it was to Steve. “Elizabeth was scandalized. And shocked.” I made my coffee and took a seat at the table. “Rowdy, your feet look very handsome. You’re a good boy. Elizabeth has led a sheltered life. She wouldn’t repeat what Vicky said. It was graphic, I guess.”
“Did Elizabeth hear anything else?”
“Oh, she thinks that Willie barked a couple of times at about eight o’clock. She can’t remember hearing him after maybe eight fifteen, but she’s not sure. She’s used to barking.”
The phone rang. Caller ID read TREEN, TABITHA, but it might as well have read THE PEST, TABITHA. Still, shame on me. Tabitha is a fundamentally decent person who just happens to be obsessed with dogs. Well, yes, you could say the same about me. People probably have. Probably? They have.
“Tabitha,” I told Steve. “I might as well get this over with. She never gives up. Hello?”
“Holly? I have to tell you that that horrible woman Cathy Brown has been spotted near Boston, and I want you to keep an eye out for her. I sent you a picture. Remember?”
What I remembered was a picture so blurry that no one could have identified anyone from it. “Yes,” I said. “Did someone identify her from the picture?”
“No. You see, I sent that awful couple to Esme Ellis’s puppy kindergarten. You know Esme, don’t you? Very nice dogs. She breeds my lines. She teaches at a training center right near where they lived, in New Jersey, and I have to tell you, Esme could not say enough good things about my lovely puppy, Cheyenne, but those people just brought her there twice, and then they dropped out, and Esme was at a shopping mall right near you—her daughter lives in Lexington, is it? Concord?—and Esme saw that horrible Cathy there. The Burlington Mall. That’s where it was. And when Esme went up to this horrible Cathy, she, Cathy, took one look and hightailed it. So, I want you keep your eyes open for her.”
As I hadn’t had a chance to say, I did know Esme Ellis, who was a reliable person. If Esme had said that she’d recognized the woman, then she had. Esme, of course, had met her, whereas I’d seen nothing more than a useless photo. “Tabitha,” I said firmly, “the Burlington Mall isn’t all that near Cambridge. I’ve driven by it, but I don’t go there. A lot of people do shop there, though, people from all over the place. There’s no reason to believe that this Cathy—”
“Holly, you need to take another look at that picture. I’ll send it to you again. I want you to memorize her face. It just makes me sick to my stomach not to know where my baby is. Holly, I need you to help.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.” The promise was sincere. I’m not in the habit of wandering around with my eyes closed.
chapter seventeen
An hour later, when I’d called Leah to make sure that Kimi was all right, Zara and I were at the kitchen table searching eBay for the stolen wedding presents and finding nothing. Izzy and Rowdy were enjoying rainy-morning snoozes at our feet, and Sammy, who’d also had a pedicure, was dozing in the kitchen crate. Steve was out in the rain walking India and Lady.
“Little Frankie must’ve stashed—” Zara started to say when Steve, India, and Lady burst through the back door followed by Rita and Quinn. Before anyone said a word, I knew that there was a crisis: Quinn’s hair showed signs of having had hands run through it, and although both Rita and Quinn were wearing rain coats, Rita hadn’t bothered to protect her coiffure from the weather. Her agitation had evidently squelched her morning sickness: her complexion was more red than green.
“Uncle Oscar, the old rascal!” Rita exclaimed. “John isn’t here?”
“He hasn’t come down yet,” I said. “I guess he’s still asleep. Or maybe he’s in the shower.”
“Sleep,” Rita said. “That brings us to the reason for this visit. Did anyone notice how awake Uncle Oscar was last night?”
“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” I suggested. “We’ll get another chair from the dining room, or we could all move into the living room.” Our kitchen is smaller than I’d like, too small for five people and five dogs. Rowdy must’ve shared my opinion. Instead of getting up to say hello to Ri
ta and Quinn, he remained under the table. “Would you like coffee? Herbal tea?”
“Holly, please stop playing hostess,” Rita said. “I asked whether anyone had noticed how lively Uncle Oscar was last night.”
“He was charming,” I said.
Zara looked up from her laptop. “He was his old self.”
“Drugs,” Rita said.
“Provigil,” Quinn added. “He helped himself to my samples.”
I laughed.
Rita glared at me. “He read the patient-information insert in the little box.”
“That’s the drug the police found. The one the burglar stole.” I felt oddly reluctant to utter the word body. “Isn’t that the drug that keeps people awake? I don’t know why you’re so upset. Uncle Oscar read the insert and realized that it might be good for him. He took it. It worked.” I paused. “He is okay, isn’t he?”
Rita was unforgiving. “Holly, this is no time for frivolity.”
“All I did was ask whether he was all right.”
“As a matter of fact,” Rita admitted, “he’s asleep.”
“The point,” Quinn said, “is that it’s a prescription drug that shouldn’t be used without supervision, especially in someone his age.”
“It’s like the billboards,” Zara commented. “You know? Teens who abuse prescription drugs usually get them from family members. We could do a new billboard. Ancient uncles who abuse prescription drugs—”
Rita cut her off: “It’s not funny, Zara.”
“It’s just Uncle Oscar’s little foible,” Zara said quietly. “Don’t worry about it.” She returned her attention to her laptop.
“The little foible,” Quinn said, “is kleptomania.”
