by Lisa Gardner
“Of course not. You were just a child when it happened, and no doubt had your own worries getting adjusted to your new life.”
“You knew about our move?”
“Well, sweetheart, when the moving vans came and loaded up your house, that was certainly a hint. Dori was devastated. I’ll be honest—we were very surprised. Certainly as … good friends of your family, we thought we’d receive prior notice. But that was a crazy time for your parents. I understand now, better than ever, their desire to keep you safe.”
“What did they tell you?”
Mrs. Petracelli cocked her head, seemed to be dredging up memories from the old days. “Your father came over one afternoon. He said that in light of everything that was happening, he’d decided to take the family away for a few days. I understood, of course, and was concerned for how you were doing. He said you were holding up well, but he thought it might be nice to go on a little vacation to take everyone’s mind off things.
“I didn’t think of it much for the first week. I was too busy keeping Dori entertained—as your absence had put her in a bit of a sulk. Then the phone rang one night and it was your father again, saying we’d never believe it, but he’d gotten a great job offer and he’d decided to take it. So you wouldn’t be returning after all. In fact, he was arranging with a moving company to just pack everything up and ship it to your new address. He thought things would be better that way.
“We were devastated. Walter and I enjoyed seeing your parents very much and, of course, you girls were so close. I’ll confess my first thought was simply how to break the news to Dori. Later, I grew a little angry. I felt … I wished your parents had returned one last time so you two girls could at least say a proper good-bye. And I wasn’t an idiot—your father was very vague on the phone, we didn’t even know which city you’d moved to. While I respected that privacy was his prerogative, I felt offended. We were friends, after all. Good friends, I’d thought. I don’t know … it was such a strange, strange autumn.”
She looked at me, head tilted to the side, and her next question was surprisingly gentle.
“Annabelle, do you remember what was going on before your family moved? Do you remember the police coming to your home?”
“Some of it. I remember finding little gifts on the porch. I remember they made my father furious.”
Mrs. Petracelli nodded. “I didn’t know what to think at the time. I’m not even sure I completely believed the initial reports of a Peeping Tom. Why would a grown man want to peek in a little girl’s bedroom? We were all so unbelievably innocent back then. Only your father seemed to understand the danger. Of course, once we learned a strange man had been hiding in Mrs. Watts’s attic, we were horrified. Such things weren’t supposed to happen in our neighborhood.
“Mr. Petracelli and I started talking about moving, especially after your family left. That’s what we were doing that week. We’d sent Dori to my parents for the weekend so we could go house hunting. We’d just gotten back from talking to a Realtor when our phone rang. It was my mother. She wanted to know if we knew where Dori was. ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Dori is with you.’ Then there was this long, long silence. And then I heard my own mother start to cry.”
Mrs. Petracelli set down her coffee mug. She gave me a soft, apologetic smile, brushed self-consciously at the corners of her eyes. “It doesn’t get any easier. You tell yourself it will, but it doesn’t. There are two moments in my life that will always be with me till the day I die: the moment my daughter was born and the moment I received a phone call telling me she was gone. Sometimes I negotiate with God. I’ll give Him all the memories of joy, if He’ll just take away the ones filled with pain. Of course, it doesn’t work like that. I get to live with the whole kit and caboodle, whether I want to or not. Here”—her voice had gone brisk again—“have another piece of banana bread.”
I took another piece. Both of us moved by rote, using the rituals of polite society to keep the horror of our conversation at bay.
“Were there any leads?” I asked. “To Dori?” I dug a walnut out of the bread with my forefinger and thumb, placed it beside my coffee cup on the table.
“One of the neighbors reported seeing an unmarked white van in the area. Best he could remember, a young man with short dark hair and a white T-shirt was at the wheel. The neighbor thought he might be a contractor working in the area. No one ever came forward, however. And in all the years, none of the tips have panned out.”
I forced myself to meet her eye. “Mrs. Petracelli, did my father know that Dori had gone missing?”
“I … Well, I don’t know. I certainly never told him. I never spoke to your father again after that last phone call. Which, come to think of it, does seem strange. But with everything that happened that November, we weren’t really thinking about you and your family anymore; we were too busy trying to save ours. Dori’s disappearance was on the news, however. For the first few days in particular, when the volunteers were pouring in and the police were launching round-the-clock searches. I don’t know if your parents saw the story or not. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.”
“Annabelle?”
I couldn’t look at her anymore. I hadn’t come to say this. I didn’t mean to say this. I was supposed to be doing reconnaissance, mining Mrs. Petracelli for information about Dori’s disappearance, preparing myself for the war ahead. But sitting in this cheery yellow kitchen, I couldn’t do it anymore. I knew when she looked at me, she saw her daughter, the little girl who’d never gotten to grow up. And I know when I looked at her, I saw my mother, the woman who’d never gotten to grow old. We had both lost too much.
“I gave Dori the locket,” I blurted out. “It was one of the gifts. One of the things he left me. My father told me to throw it away. But I couldn’t do it. Instead, I gave it to Dori.”
Mrs. Petracelli didn’t say anything right away. She pushed back her chair, stood up, started clearing the dishes from the table.
“Annabelle, do you think my daughter was killed because of some silly locket?”
“Maybe.”
She took my coffee cup, then her own. She set them carefully, as if they were very fragile, in the sink. When she returned, she bent, placed her hand on my shoulder, and enveloped me with the soft scent of lavender.
“You did not kill my daughter, Annabelle. You were her best friend. You brought her immeasurable joy. Truth is, none of us control how much time we have here on earth. We can only control the life we lead while we have it. Dori led a loving, gracious, joyful existence. I think of that every morning when I wake up, and I think of it every night before I go to bed. My daughter had seven years of love. That’s a greater gift than some people ever get. And you were part of that gift, Annabelle. I thank you for that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Shhhh …”
“You are so brave.…”
“I’m playing the hand I was dealt,” Mrs. Petracelli said. “Bravery has nothing to do with it. Annabelle, I am enjoying speaking with you. It’s not often I get to talk to someone who knew Dori. She disappeared so young, and it was so long ago.… But it is time, dear. I have my meeting.”
“Of course, of course.” I belatedly scooted back my chair, let Mrs. Petracelli escort me to the door. Halfway across the family room, I looked up to see Mr. Petracelli coming down the stairs, dressed in dark chinos, a blue-checkered dress shirt, and a deep blue sweater-vest. He took one look at me, did an abrupt about-face, and headed back up the stairs, empty coffee cup dangling from his fingertips.
I glanced at Mrs. Petracelli, saw the strain of her lie regarding her husband stamped in the lines on her face. I didn’t say a word, just squeezed her hand.
At the door, however, one last thing occurred to me. “Mrs. Petracelli,” I asked, “do you think I could get a picture?”
The Phoenix International Airport was a sea of white Bermuda shorts, broad straw hats, and red-flip-flop-wearing humanity. We dodg
ed families, business travelers, and youth groups, trailing our carry-on luggage through an endlessly long terminal. My memory of Arizona was bright Southwest colors, dancing green kokopelli dolls, red terra-cotta pots.
Apparently, no one had told the airport designers that. This terminal, at least, was decorated in morose shades of gray. Taking the escalator downstairs was even more depressing. Dark concrete walls gave the entire space the feeling of a dungeon.
None of it improved my state of mind. Run, I kept thinking. Run while you still have the chance.
I’d barely made it back to my apartment from the Petracelli home when Detective Dodge showed up. I made him wait downstairs while I frantically tossed items in my overnight bag. Then I broke the news that we’d need to drop Bella off at the vet’s on the way to the airport. He didn’t seem to mind, taking my bag, opening the car’s back door for my enthusiastic dog.
“Why don’t you call me Bobby,” he said on the way to the vet’s. We dropped off Bella—who gave me a last devastated look before the vet’s assistant led her away—then continued on our way.
At the airport, D.D. was waiting at the terminal with her usual grim expression.
“Annabelle,” she acknowledged curtly.
“D.D.,” I shot back. She didn’t blink an eye at the familiarity.
Apparently, we were one big happy family. Until we boarded the plane. D.D. opened her briefcase, fanned out an assortment of files, and got to work. Bobby wasn’t any better. Had his own files, pen, plus a propensity to mutter.
I read People cover to cover, then studied the Sky Mall’s choices for pet products. Maybe if I bought Bella her very own drinking fountain, she’d forgive me for boarding her.
Mostly, I tried to keep myself busy.
I’d never flown before. My father didn’t believe in it. “Too expensive,” he’d say. Too dangerous is what he really meant. Flying involved buying tickets, and tickets could be traced. Instead, he relied on old clunker automobiles purchased with cash. Whenever we left town, we’d stop at some salvage yard along the way. Bye-bye, family automobile. Hello, new bucket of rust.
Needless to say, some of these cars proved more reliable than others. My father became an expert at repairing brakes, replacing radiators, and duct-taping various windows, doors, bumpers. It amazed me now that I’d never wondered before how an overeducated mathematician became so good with his hands. Necessity is the mother of invention? Or maybe I simply didn’t want to know all the things I didn’t want to know.
For example, if a moving van had packed up our old house, why had I never seen any of my childhood furniture again?
We’d finally reached the airport exit. Thick, smoked-glass doors parted. We stepped into the enveloping heat. Immediately, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform headed toward us, bearing a white placard with Bobby’s name.
“What’s this?” D.D. demanded to know, blocking the chauffeur’s path.
The man stopped. “Detective Dodge? Sergeant Warren? If you would please follow me.” He gestured behind him, where a sleek black limo was parked across the way, at the median strip.
“Who arranged this?” D.D. asked in the same clipped tone.
“Mrs. Catherine Gagnon, of course. May I help you with your bag?”
“No. Absolutely not. Not possible.” D.D. turned back toward Bobby, stating in a vehement undertone: “Department regs specifically state that officers may not accept free goods or services. This is clearly a service.”
“I’m not a police officer,” I offered.
“You,” she said flatly, “are with us.”
D.D. resumed walking. Bobby fell in step behind her. Not knowing what else to do, I gave the perplexed chauffeur a last apologetic shrug, then trailed in their wake.
We had to wait twenty minutes for a taxi. Enough time for the sweat to build up under my armpits and trickle down my spine. Enough time for me to remember that my New England family had only made it nine months in Phoenix before fleeing to a cooler climate.
Once in the taxi, D.D. provided an address in Scottsdale. I started to put the pieces together. Former Back Bay resident, now living in Scottsdale, with a penchant for sending limos. Catherine Gagnon was rich.
I wondered if she needed any window treatments done, then had to cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a hysterical giggle. I wasn’t doing very well anymore. Blame it on the heat, the company, the sensory overload of my first plane ride. I could feel tension knotting in my belly. The growing tremors in my hand.
Everyone wanted me to meet this woman, but no one was really telling me why. I’d already said that I’d never heard of Catherine Gagnon. Yet the city of Boston was still willing to pick up the check for two detectives and one civilian to fly five thousand miles round-trip and overnight in Phoenix. What did Bobby and D.D. know that I didn’t? And if I was so smart, why did I already feel like a pawn of the BPD?
I pressed my forehead against the warm glass of the window. I wished desperately for a glass of water. When I looked up again, Bobby was watching me with an inscrutable expression. I turned away.
The cab made a left. Weaved in and out of dusty, purple-hued hills. We passed towering saguaros, silver creosote bushes, red-tipped barrel cacti. My mother and I had been so intrigued when we’d first moved here. But we’d never adapted. The landscape always felt like someone else’s home. We were too used to snow-capped mountains, dense green woods, and granite gray cliffs. We never knew what to make of this terrible, alien beauty.
The cab came to a long whitewashed stucco wall. Black wrought-iron gates appeared on our right. The cab slowed, turned toward the gates, and found a speaker mounted on the outer wall.
“Say Sergeant D.D. Warren is here,” D.D. instructed.
The cabbie did as he was told. The elaborately swirling gates swung open and we entered a shaded green wonderland. I saw an acre of perfectly manicured lawn, lined by broad-leafed trees. We followed the winding road to a circular drive, where a tiled fountain bubbled amidst a carpet of flowers. Which set the stage perfectly for the enormous Spanish Mission–style house that unfolded in front of us.
To the left: towering windows framed in dark mahogany beams, set in thick adobe walls. To the right: more of the same, except this side also included a glass atrium and what I guessed was an indoor pool.
“Holy mother of God,” I murmured, and to my deep shame, really was curious if the mysterious Mrs. Gagnon might need any window treatments. The size and scope of the windows here. The challenge. The money …
“Back Bay dollars go far in Arizona,” Bobby said lightly.
D.D. just took in the whole thing with a tight look on her face.
She paid the driver, asked for a receipt. We trudged up the long, sinuous walk to a pair of massive dark walnut doors. Bobby did the honors of knocking. D.D. and I clustered behind him, clutching our luggage like self-conscious guests.
“What do you think it costs to water this lawn?” I started to babble. “I bet she spends more on her grounds crew each month than I do on rent. Did she ever remarry?”
The right-side door opened. We were confronted by a matronly Hispanic woman with iron gray hair, a short stocky figure, and drab taste in housecoats.
“Sergeant Warren, Detective Dodge, Señorita Nelson? Please, come in. Señora Gagnon will see you in the library.”
She took our luggage, asked if we required refreshment after our long trip. We all moved on autopilot, surrendering our belongings, assuring her we were fine, then following her lead from the vaulted foyer into the mansion.
We walked down a broad, creamy white hallway, walls periodically inlaid with quartets of Mexican tile. Dark exposed beams supported a twelve-foot-high ceiling. More thick planks formed the flooring beneath our feet.
We passed an atrium, an indoor pool, a fine collection of antiques. If the outside of the house made the point, the interior added an exclamation point: For Catherine Gagnon, money was no object.
Just as I wondered how long one hallway coul
d be, the housekeeper turned to the left and paused in front of a pair of heavy walnut doors. The library, I presumed.
The housekeeper knocked.
“You may enter,” a muffled voice replied.
The doors parted and I caught my first glimpse of the infamous Catherine Gagnon.
Catherine stood in front of a sun-drenched expanse of windows. The bright backlight obscured her features, revealing only a slender silhouette with long dark hair. I noted thin arms, crossed at her stomach. Jutting hip bones, protruding beneath the panels of a long peasant skirt. Rounded shoulders displayed by a sleeveless, chocolate-brown wrapped shirt, tied at her waist.
I glanced at Bobby. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at Catherine. In contrast, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, her fingers caressing her bare forearm as if she could already feel her fingers splayed across his chest. The tension in the room was palpable and no one had said a word.
“Catherine,” Bobby acknowledged finally, coming to a halt well back. “Thanks for seeing us.”
“A promise is a promise.” Her gaze flickered briefly to me, but didn’t linger. “I trust you had a good flight.”
“No complaints. How is Nathan?”
“Excellent, thank you. Attending a very fine private school. I have many hopes for him.” She was smiling now, a knowing look on her face as Bobby continued to hang back and she continued to stroke her arm. She finally turned to D.D.
“Sergeant Warren.” Her voice chilled ten degrees.
“Long time no see,” D.D. commented.
“And yet, not long enough.”
Her gaze returned to me, if only to make a point of dismissing D.D. This time, she regarded me thoughtfully, eyes going from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet and back again. I held up under the scrutiny, but I was acutely aware of my cheap cotton top, my fraying jeans, my ratty shoulder bag. I worked two jobs to cover my rent as it was. Haircuts, manicures, fancy clothes. Those were luxuries meant for a woman of leisure like her, not for a working stiff like me.
