by Clea Simon
It couldn’t be, I told myself. The world is full of dark, handsome men, many of them wanderers, and some of them even complete with dental problems. I was just feeling silly, realizing that I was one of those “gals” who went for a particular type. Still….
“You wouldn’t have a picture of him, would you?” I tried to sound nonchalant as I asked, but I could hear my voice rising.
“Hang on. We should.” He didn’t seem to notice how closely I was following as he made his way over to a tall file cabinet. “There was a group shot of everyone in the home, the counselors and all.” I looked over his shoulder as he flipped through folders, trying not to dive into the drawer myself. He pulled one out and leafed through it. “Funny, it’s not here. Someone must have checked it out.”
“If it shows up, could you fax me a copy?”
“Sure. And I’m sure it will. We’re pretty good about who we allow access to—these files are our life!” I smiled at that, but without putting my heart into it. The chipped tooth, the missing photo: this was getting to be too much to be coincidence. I copied out my phone numbers, and the one for the Mail fax, and waited while he Xeroxed some more of his files for me. I wasn’t sure I needed to read anything. I had a lot of questions that needed answering, but they were the kind of questions that I had to ask in person, where I could look into a certain pair of deep blue eyes and gauge the reaction. In the meantime, it was time to pick up Violet and head back to town.
She was waiting on the curb when I pulled up to Greenleaf House, more than ready to go.
“Theda, thank the goddess. Boy, do I have news for you. First, Dougie was here! He was here, Theda. He was at the house last Monday, for all of last week. He couldn’t have done it.”
I’d almost forgotten that I’d sent her to check the home’s sign-in sheet.
“So, he signed in?”
“He didn’t sign out, actually. That’s how they do it. So he never left that night.” She looked at me, as I pulled into traffic. Northurst’s main street had its own little rush hour. “What?” She must have seen something on my face. “Don’t tell me you don’t trust that? I mean, it’s not the greatest security system in the world, but I trust him.”
“You trust him?”
“Yeah, I asked him about it, about where he’d been. Well, you wanted to know.” Her chin pushed forward as if to make her point. “I asked him when he had last seen his mother, actually. I made it sound like I was sympathizing with him.” No wonder she was acting so touchy; she felt guilty. “I asked when she’d last visited him and it was, like, two weeks ago. That makes sense; that was the night that creep jumped me. Lillian had gone out to see him that day. Then I asked again a little later, when the last time he saw her was. Just in case he’d gone to visit her since then.” She looked away from me, out the window. “He knew something was up, that I wasn’t just asking to be nice. He said, ‘I told you, Violet. She visited me two weeks ago.’”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to turn you into a spy.” I did feel bad, but I wasn’t as convinced as she was. “And you checked the book, right?”
“I did. I snuck into the office and flipped back to last week. I know that’s not conclusive, but I believe him, Theda. He’s disturbed, but he’s not stupid and he does care. Even if—big if—something did happen, he blew up at her or something? He wouldn’t have walked off and left her there. Even if he didn’t have it together to call 911, he’d probably have just stayed with her until morning. You saw how he gets, he turns inward.”
“You’re right, it was probably nothing. I just had to check.” What she said had made sense. Dougie might have hurt someone, but the man I had met didn’t seem like he’d abandon his mother, no matter what. Plus, I couldn’t help wondering now what role, if any, Violet’s attacker had played, or if my wild ideas about Connor had any weight to them. Still, it didn’t make sense to put complete faith in my instincts or in Violet’s, either. No matter what my young friend thought, another call to Bill Sherman was in order. I remembered what Brett had told me about Cambridge cops requesting information, and wondered if my friendly neighborhood detective was already aware of Dougie, and maybe the missing counselor, too. I really didn’t want to make myself sound like a fool again: a conspiracy theorist or amateur detective. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t share any of this with Violet. “Thanks for following through.”
“I’m glad I did it, glad I could help and also hang with Dougie some. But spending time with him can get exhausting, you know? I mean, for both of us.”
“Yeah, I do. I mean, I think I do.” I knew I sounded distracted, but I didn’t want her blowing up at me, if I pressed the case about Dougie. And now there was a new factor, unless of course I was just being paranoid. Or pissed—a man doesn’t call and the next thing, he’s an arsonist or a thief? Besides, there was traffic. “So what did you guys do, after I left?”
“Well, we talked and I got him to go out for a walk. I don’t think he gets much exercise and it’s good for him to get outside. I wanted to ask him how he felt, you know, give him a chance to talk about his mom?” She looked up at me and I nodded. “But he was too raw. You touched a nerve over lunch, I think. And I can’t always tell how much it’s good for him to air, and how much is just too stressful, so that was sort of tense. Finally, I just asked him about what he did during the day.”
I wasn’t really listening, but I could tell Violet needed to unload a bit, so I let her go on about the day program and the fellow residents, whose every quirk, endearing or annoying, Dougie had described to her. We were on the turnpike, half an hour back toward town when she began to slow up, and I tuned in again.
“So, Theda, solvents?”
“Huh? I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.”
“I noticed. You’re going nearly eighty by the way.”
She was right and I eased off. I wanted to get back to Cambridge as soon as possible, but I also wanted to do it in one piece. We passed the first signs for Worcester. Civilization, I thought. Hallelujah.
“Now, what were you asking? Something about solvents?”
“Yeah, I feel like a fool. Two years of art school and I still can’t mix colors without making a mess. I was wondering if you have any turpentine or any other kind of paint thinner, something to get this gunk out of jeans.”
I glanced over and saw what she meant. A particularly hideous dead-flesh pink was splashed across her thigh like a fake bruise. Any other color and maybe she’d have gotten away with it.
“Wow, that’s a real Patti Wright hue, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help laughing.
“Oh, great, thanks.” She laughed too and examined the spot. “No, it’s not bright enough, is it? I could say it’s a fashion statement: baby-puke puce, or something. Market these as one-of-a-kind designer pants. But they’re my favorite pair.”
“And that won’t wash out?” The splotch did look awfully thick.
“No, it’s oil paint.” She picked at the spot, and I could see that not much was coming loose.
Someone had been talking about oil paint recently. Connor again. I couldn’t think about him and tried, instead to remember what he’d said. All I could recall was that you needed particular solvents to remove it. “Well, I don’t have any paint thinner on hand, but Pearl Paint will still be open when we get back.”
She sat there silent and I understood. “And I can spring for some turpentine.”
“Thanks, Theda. You’ve been great. If I could just borrow about three bucks, I’d be grateful. I don’t mean to be such a mooch. In fact, I was going to offer to chip in for the gas but then lunch actually came to more than I expected.”
“Don’t worry about it. That lunch was great, especially the fries.” I was still chuckling over “baby-puke puce” and pulled out my wallet. She fished out a few singles and handed it back. “One more assignment about wedding budgets and I’ll almost be in the black for this month!”
“Wedding budgets?”
“Oh, yeah.” I gave her t
he rundown about my glamorous freelance assignments. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t before. She was a great audience, laughing at my impersonation of my editor Tim and sympathizing with my woes.
“The worst part is that most of this stuff just seems to belong to another life, you know?” I’d gotten onto some of the home renovation stories that I covered. “I mean, do you know anyone who has a budget of thirty-thou just to redo their bathroom?”
“Ask me if I know anyone who has thirty thou, period.” She sighed and sunk back into her seat. The splash of paint on her leg caught my eye again as she rested her knees up on the dashboard.
“So how did that happen?” The image of the tree-shaded house where we’d left Dougie came into my mind. “They’re not painting Greenleaf House in that awful color, are they?”
“No, no. The restoration work is totally done now.” She continued worrying at the spot with her thumbnail. The paint was dry and hard. “This was from Dougie’s personal set of paints. Some of his stuff is actually pretty powerful. Some of it’s really disturbing.”
“They let him work with oils?”
“Yeah, he’s not a kid. He’s just messed up.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I guess I was just surprised that there wouldn’t be a house rule about ‘watercolors only’ or something. Besides, those paints are expensive, aren’t they?”
“Tell me about it.” She sighed. “No, these are the ones that his old counselor left. They were in some closet that the fire didn’t touch. Dougie got them when he got out of the hospital.”
When his counselor left? Had Dougie’s counselor been the one to go missing, or was this some more benign job change? Was this another Connor connection?
“Theda, what is it?” Violet looked over and I realized my foot was pressing down once more on the accelerator.
“It may be nothing, Violet. It may be nothing. I’ve got some things to think through.”
Connor. All I could think of was Connor. But it didn’t seem fair to accuse anyone, not yet. Especially when he might be on my mind for other reasons. Still, I couldn’t leave Violet entirely in the dark. “I think—I’m not sure, but I do have a suspicion—that I might know who ripped off Greenleaf House.”
“You do?” She leaned toward me, almost pushing herself out of her seat. “Theda, if you know something—well, those guys are really hurting without that money.”
I waved her back. “Sit down, Violet, sit down. I don’t know anything. I have some suspicions, but I might also be completely off base.” I really didn’t want to explain what could sound like an obsession. “I need to think about it.”
The whole truth was that I needed to sit down in some quiet place and try to reason through everything I’d heard, try to put it in context with my own emotions, but Violet accepted my excuse. We rode on without speaking, each lost in our thoughts as the miles whipped by. Soon Violet was able to get a Boston college station on the radio and we caught a local music show that ended just as I pulled off for the Cambridge-Allston exit. The next DJ up started a reggae tune, and Violet started flipping around, searching for more rock. At some point a lyric seemed to spark a memory and she’d started to tell me something. She was so excited, all I had to do was nod assent, and that let me stay lost in thought. I wanted to see Connor, as soon as I could. I wanted him to have an explanation for his ready money. For his oil paints and for where he came from. For everything.
“So, do you think you can come by?” Violet must have been going on for about twenty minutes, all twisted up in her seat like she was ready to jump out, when I tuned her in again.
“What? I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“To the house tonight. I figure we’ve got not quite twenty-four hours.”
“The house? I’m sorry, Violet, I’ve been in a whole other world.”
“I should have known when you didn’t interrupt me to tell me about the danger, how I was going to be busted.” She was smiling. For the first time I noticed that she looked happy. Triumphant almost.
“Wait, start at the beginning.” We were pulling into Central Square.
“Hey, drop me at the Mug, okay?” I nodded, waiting for her to continue. “I knew there was a second thing I had to tell you.” We pulled up in front of the coffee shop and I turned to her. She had my full attention.
“Well, a couple of things Dougie said made me think. You know how he kept saying his mom took care of everything?” She was looking me full in the face, making sure I was listening this time. I was, and nodded again. “Well, he didn’t just mean in the past. He meant in the future, too. I asked him, Theda. And he remembers! He remembers her telling him, making him repeat it so he’d get it right. Lillian wrote a will, Theda. She wrote a will that will take care of Dougie, the house, and all the cats, too. And that will is in the house somewhere. It’s got to be. And before those cats are put to sleep tomorrow, I’m going to find it.”
“Wait a minute.” I wasn’t following her logic, and the cars honking at my stopped vehicle didn’t help. “He just told you this now?” She nodded. Had she mentioned this on the drive? If so, I’d been too distracted to hear. “He’d always told me she’d made plans for him,” Violet went on. “And I’ll confess, I’d been hoping there was something like this, in all that mess of an old house.”
“So now you’re saying you weren’t looking for clues?” I was finding it hard to credit her changing stories.
She shrugged. “That too. I still think the answer has to be there, somewhere.” I remembered the medic-alert pendant. I’d never told Violet about finding it, I realized with a flash of guilt. She’d been right about that one thing at least, and deserved to be heard out.
The excited girl hadn’t noticed my thoughtful pause. “You didn’t get to know Lillian. I did. She always said that everything was in there, that if anything happened to her I’d find the answer at her place. Then today, when I was talking to Dougie about his mom, it all came out. It was like he’d just remembered the word: will. He said it like I should have known what he meant before. I don’t know, maybe I just hadn’t been listening to him.”
Her words echoed my own thoughts so closely I turned to stare at her. “Are you sure we’re not being taken up by wishful thinking here?” I had to ask.
She shook her head. “He was really clear on that. I mean, clear for him.”
Knowing Dougie’s tenuous connection with reality, I still couldn’t discount the wish factor. “If she really did write a will, wouldn’t it be filed with the city or something?” Violet raised her one pierced eyebrow. “Oh yeah, Lillian didn’t trust the state.”
Someone honked behind me and I started, almost plowing into the car in front of me. I shifted into park as Violet got out and reached for her bag. So that’s why she’d been so happy all the way back. I didn’t dare point out the obvious: that Lillian’s unease with authority might have extended to whatever rigamarole you have to go through to make documents legal. Or that Dougie’s connection to reality could have taken a big detour through wishful thinking. Nor any of the other options, that any will might have gone the way of all trash or been shredded by one of her feline wards, or might just never be found. What she’d posed was at best a slim chance. But she’d become a friend, and I was done with letting my friendships slide. I’d help her if I could.
“So you’re going over there now?”
She shook her head. “You really have been out of it, haven’t you?” I smiled back and shrugged, guilt acknowledged. “No, I’ve got that fund raiser at Goddess Books to play. Wish it wasn’t too late to cop out, but that will just be two sets, a few hours. And first I’ve got to check in with Laurel, the manager.” She motioned to the coffeehouse behind her. “I may not make it in for my shift tomorrow. But I’ll be at Lillian’s by midnight latest—if you want to help.”
“Yeah, I do.” I thought of those cats, caged and waiting. “I’ve got a few things of my own to take care of, so, yeah, that’ll work.” I was wondering where Connor
would be right now. “Midnight sounds fine. I’ll be there. If there’s a will, we’ll find it.”
“There is a will.” She stepped back, a broad grin on her face as she waved me on. “And we’ll find the way!”
Chapter Seventeen
Several messages and one rather upset cat greeted me upon my return. A plant, the last of my slow-dying succulents, had been overturned, its ceramic pot shattered and its mica-flecked soil scattered all over my living room rug. Musetta seemed to know she’d done something wrong and kept darting back and forth, unsure whether to make nice by rubbing against my shins or to try to hide the damage. I picked her up and rubbed her neck to console her. That plant had been on its way out for months, but the pot had probably made a fearsome crash. She rewarded me with a hearty purr as I turned my back on the mess of shards and soil and hit the message replay button.
“Hi girl! It’s Tess.” I scrambled for a pen to write down her new number. “There’s a party tonight over in the South End. If you wanna come, let me know?” I knew I wouldn’t make it, but I made a mental note to call her as soon as I came up for air. I was glad she was back in town.
“Theda? This is Bill Sherman. Would you call me, please?” I should’ve known that one was coming. Well, I’d dropped off the pendant and had some new information for him next time we touched base. Of course, it would’ve been easier to deliver it if I had also had the missing key he’d requested.
“Hey, Theda. This is Shel on the copy desk. We’ve got a few questions in your Central Café piece.” I groaned and put the cat down, reaching instead for a pencil to record the Mail extension that Shelly, one of my old desk colleagues, had left. I didn’t have time for this, not now. But I’d spent too long on the desk myself to duck a call. Tracking down writers was a thankless task when deadline loomed and questions or inconsistencies—like a name spelled two different ways, neither of which could be verified—meant the difference between clean copy and a sloppy section.
