“You can tell me what’s going on.” I flicked the turn indicator for a left onto Route 138.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “The police have physical evidence that places me at the scene of the crime.”
“But they know why you were there. I heard you tell them.”
“Why should they believe me? I don’t make a very credible witness, do I? Hardened scofflaw that I am. Unrepentant criminal trespasser.”
“Oh, Sunnye, speaking of trespass?” I recalled the notes I’d made about looking into her association with Munro. How could I ask her about other members of the Urban Explorers without letting her know what I was up to? I made the question as casual as possible. “Who else was in that explorer group?”
She didn’t bite. “Confidential. We take an oath.”
Dead end there.
She was still musing over her encounter with Massachusetts’ finest. “One of those cops asked me if I thought I was above the law. Like Kit Danger, he said.” She pulled down the visor, checked herself in the lighted mirror, then slapped it back up. Nope—not Kit Danger. “It didn’t help any when I said Kit wasn’t above the law, she was simply outside the law. That the law to her was a set of fictional constraints by which she chose not to imagine herself bound.”
“Jesus! Who’d you say that to? Piotrowski?”
“Yeah. The big guy that was at your house. The lieutenant. You know him, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. You could say that. We’ve been…together…for a while.”
She regarded me soberly. “Karen, if you’re involved with this guy, I don’t want to get you in hot water with him. Just drop me off at some motel. I’ll register as Jane Doe.”
“No, for Chrissake! I do what I want to. You’re coming home with me.”
We drove through the Enfield outskirts. Smoke rose from chimneys. TV screens flickered in windows. Porch lights glowed. A peaceful evening in the New England countryside. Then I blurted out, “But, Sunnye, what on earth possessed you to smart off to Charlie Piotrowski about the law being a fiction!”
She grinned at me, sheepishly. “Well…I was quoting verbatim from one of the talks I heard at the conference—something about the cultural imaginary. The author said the law was a complex set of agreed-upon conventions by which we choose to imagine ourselves safe.”
“Ah, social constructivism.”
“Yeah? Well, the idea took my fancy, and, I thought, what the hell, it’s just scholarly claptrap, how much trouble could it get me in?” She checked herself in the mirror again. The lighted frame lent her tired features a greenish cast. She was not now Kit Danger, nor had she ever been. “Stupid, I know.”
I could picture Charlie’s reaction to her banter: The intelligent brown eyes widen for a mere second. The full lips purse. Then the official mask falls: The strong face negates all response. I sighed. A tidal wave of longing almost knocked me over.
“Well, Sunnye, you are a bit of a renegade.”
She took it as praise. “Damn right, I am.” She slapped her thigh in emphasis. In the confines of the small car, the impact sounded like a gun shot. Trouble jumped up and poked his dark muzzle into the front seat uneasily. She patted him. “And, Goddamn it, Karen, you should be, too. What good is life if you have to follow every fucking rule?”
I thought about it for a minute. Given where I come from, simply doing what I’m doing is a renegade act. If moving from the squalid row houses of Lowell to the ivory towers of Enfield College isn’t social trespass, I don’t know what is. I don’t need to kayak the storm sewers of Minneapolis to get my jollies. “Well, Sunnye, there’s this to say about it, a strictly law-abiding person doesn’t often get picked up and questioned about involvement in a homicide case.”
She relaxed back into the seat. “That’s true. There is that to be said about a law-abiding life. It’s safe. Boring, but safe.”
My…difficulty…with Charlie Piotrowski came to mind, then my upcoming tenure decision. Yeah. Safe. I changed the subject. “Did they say what kind of evidence they have against you?”
“Dog hair in the closed stacks. Trouble sheds a lot.”
I clicked my tongue.
“And fingerprints on books, of course. They’ve got some fabulous editions there. I couldn’t keep my hands off them. Elly must have been killed shortly after Trouble and I left him. So, according to the investigators, I’ve got means and method. Means: I was there and I’ve admitted it. Method: I could easily have shoved those steps out from under him. Anyone could have. What they don’t have is a motive.” She leaned her head back against the headrest. “But they’re looking into it.”
Sunnye was silent as we drove deeper into the countryside. Just when I thought she’d fallen asleep, she sighed again. “In case you’re wondering, Karen, I do know the difference between right and wrong, between fiction and reality. I didn’t kill Elwood Munro. I write about murder—I don’t commit it. And, while I can’t exactly say I liked Elly, I did admire the little weasel. God, did he have balls! And, damn it, it looks like I’m going to have to find out who killed him, if only to save my own neck. But, first…” She fell into another silence.
“But, first?” I prompted.
“First I’m going to sleep. And then I’m going to sleep some more.”
***
Sunnye looked around my living room. “This is cozy,” she said. Then she went to bed in my bedroom without waiting for me to change the sheets. Trouble flopped down on the mat beside her. I could hear his ecstatic sigh as, toting pajamas, bathrobe, and a change of clothes for the morning, I closed the door behind me.
In the kitchen the sherbet had melted in the paper grocery bag, slopping all over the other provisions I’d forgotten to put away in my rush to rescue Sunnye. I dumped the sticky carton in the sink and mopped up the mess. Then I pulled a big soup pot out from the shelf under the counter. The chicken went in the pot, covered with cold water and accompanied by carrots, celery, onion, and peppercorns. It was ten thirty. I could let the soup cook until Amanda got home at midnight and finish it tomorrow.
By midnight the house smelled of simmering chicken. No Amanda. At one o’clock, I put rice on to steam. No Amanda. I lifted the chicken and vegetables out of the pot, then mashed the vegetables into the broth. I let the chicken cool while I flavored the soup with sea salt, bay leaf, and parsley. Then I shredded the tender meat into the broth and added the rice. One thirty-seven. Soup was done. No Amanda.
Automobile accident? Arrested for speeding through some small town in Delaware? What did I know about this Luke, anyhow? What if he was a boozer with a DWI record? Or, oh my God, what if Amanda had suddenly collapsed and was lying dangerously ill in some hick hospital?
I had my medical manual out now. Infectious Mononucleosis: fever, nausea, exhaustion. Okay, okay, okay: we could live with that. But there was more: Chest pain, difficulty breathing, tachycardia. Yikes! Rupture of the spleen! My God!
I began pacing.
At one fifty-three Amanda’s Jetta pulled into the driveway. A skinny kid slid out from behind the wheel. “Hi, Mrs. Pelletier. I’m Luke. I drove Amanda home.” He added, “I’m pre-med,” as if that explained something.
Amanda got her door open. She was pale, shaky, and thin. I rushed around the car so she could lean on me. “How are you, Sweetie? And what took you so long? I’ve been worried to death.”
“Mom,” she said, ignoring my words. “What’s going on around here? We just passed two TV news vans pulled over with their parking lights on.”
I groaned. “Oh, no! They’ve found her!”
“Found who?”
“Sunnye Hardcastle. She’s spending the night in my bed.”
Luke’s eyes widened. Amanda hadn’t told him her Mom was such hot stuff. But my daughter took the news in her stride. “Sunnye Hardcastle, the novelist? At our house? Cool!”
***
When Sunnye and Trouble came padding into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning, I was mixing waffle ba
tter. Sunnye sniffed the air. “Coffee,” she said. She held out a mug. I filled it. “Thanks. And thanks for the good bed. By the way, did you know someone’s asleep on your couch?”
“That’s Luke. He drove Amanda home last night. Sunnye, sorry to have to tell you this, but the vultures have tracked you down. They’re hovering outside even as we speak.”
“Shit!” She lowered herself onto a kitchen chair. “What am I going to do?” It was a genuine plea for direction. The resourceful Kit Danger seemed to have deserted her creator.
“Eat some breakfast, and we’ll think about it.” I slid a thick waffle onto a plate and handed it to her.
“Yum,” she said. “Do you have one of these things for Trouble?”
***
I pondered the options. It was Sunday morning in a college town; there were possibilities. I got on the phone and issued some invitations. Then I started cooking. Quiche. Donuts. More waffle batter. Quarts of coffee. By eleven o’clock people began to arrive. Jill came first in the mammoth Ford Excursion her parents had given Eloise for her first birthday. She pulled up to the kitchen door, lugged the toddler in, and went back for two quarts of strawberries. Then came Greg and Irena with their twins, Jane and Sally; Earlene with Lou, her man of the moment; George Gilman with his foster son, six-year-old Shawn. We gabbed and ate for a couple of hours. Sunnye seemed to enjoy herself. Trouble tolerated being mauled by toddlers. Luke told hilarious stories about his summer job in a morgue. Even Amanda, wan as she was, joined in the conversation.
Then it was one o’clock, and everyone prepared to leave—simultaneously. Jill was taking Luke to the bus station in Springfield so he could get back to school for Monday classes. While Jill tucked Eloise into her car seat, Luke, with many effusive good-byes to Amanda, climbed into the front passenger seat of the Excursion. Everyone else got into their cars. In the hubbub of the mass departure, the lurking journalists didn’t notice the two blanket-covered figures huddled on the floor of the Excursion’s cargo area. The convoy pulled out of the driveway. Sunnye Hardcastle and Trouble were on their way to meet Sunnye’s entourage of publicist and lawyer in a luxury suite at the Springfield Marriott.
Under assumed names, of course.
Chapter Twenty-one
Monday morning, sitting at my desk during office hours, I realized I had no idea how to get in touch with Dennis O’Hanlon: no street address, no phone number, no e-mail. Dennis had been investigating the thefts from the library, and, as much as I hated to admit it, her backpack in Elwood Munro’s kitchen linked Peggy Briggs to them. The more I knew about where she had been before she disappeared, the more likely it was I would locate her. Maybe Dennis had a line on her. Besides, I thought it would be fun to talk to him again; that combination of childhood memories and jungle-cat masculinity was so damn enticing. I called Information for Lowell. Tons of O’Hanlons—after all, it was an Irish-Catholic family—but no Dennis.
I knew Avery Mitchell would have the investigator’s address, but it would be impolitic, downright stupid, actually, to let the president of the college know I was particularly interested in the private eye he’d hired. Or in the college library book thefts. Or in the death of Elwood Munro. If I wanted to be tenured at Enfield next year, I had to keep my head down and my forensic curiosity to myself.
Anyhow, it was the new millennium; the Internet was the way to find Dennis. I logged on, went to the White Pages, keyed in his name, and clicked. Fourteen Dennis O’Hanlons popped up, but Dennis O’Hanlon, Investigative Services headed the list.
The O’Hanlon website advertised Investigations: Background, Fraud, Undercover. I clicked on the e-mail link and composed a brief note. Five minutes later the phone rang. Dennis. “Hey, Karen, what’s up?”
“Hey, Dennis. Listen, I need some info on what was happening in that library. Can I ask you a few questions?”
A hesitation, then, “Shoot.”
“A student of mine seems in some strange way to be connected to the book thief. Peggy Briggs? The young woman you were looking for in the library. The girl with the over-stuffed envelope? Now she’s missing. No one has seen her in three or four days. I thought if I knew more about what was stolen and how, I might be able to help find her.”
“In that case I guess it won’t hurt to divulge a few facts.”
Divulge? “Did you run across her at all?” I asked.
“No. But you’ve got to remember I was only on this investigation for a couple weeks, and only those two days on site.”
“Uh huh.” Hadn’t Monica mentioned that she’d seen him around before that?
“My preliminary inquiries made it clear that the Enfield situation was not an isolated case. As I informed Mitchell and that librarian, Ms. Thompson, the thefts in your library seem to be part of a widespread pattern of rare books and manuscripts stolen from colleges and universities all over the country.”
“Yes, I know. I saw hundreds—thousands—of them.” I bit my tongue; he was the one person in particular I’d promised Charlie I wouldn’t tell about the Book House.
“You saw them? Where? How?”
It was my turn. “I really can’t divulge that.”
“No fair.” He was the boyish Denny again, almost flirtatious. “I gave you what I had.”
Not really. But I told him about the farmhouse on Chesterfield Mountain anyhow. “The story was all over the news. You must have seen it.”
“I did, of course. That Munro was a smart little bastard, wasn’t he? To look at him you wouldn’t have thought…” He went into one of his silences.
“When did you ever see Elwood Munro?”
He ignored my question. “I had no idea you were up there in Chesterfield.” He was quiet for a second or two. “Interesting.”
“Well, it’s just that I know a couple of the investigators—”
“Do you, now? There’s more to you, Karen, than meets the eye. What do you say we get together, have a long talk? Wednesday. Dinner. Say, seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up at your house.”
Spending actual time with Dennis was more than I had bargained for. I hoped he didn’t have expectations of anything other than a good talk. “But I live way the hell out—”
He bulled right through my evasion. “Don’t worry. I’ll find it. See you then.” He hung up.
There was a tentative knock on my office door. I should call Dennis back and cancel, but this was office hours, and my students came first. I took a deep breath and pushed the chair back from the desk. Stephanie Abrams was standing at the door. Obviously she’d been waiting for me to get off the phone. Had she heard any of the conversation?
The student hugged books to her chest. “Dean Johnson said you wanted to see me.”
“Hi, Stephanie. How are you?” I seated her in the green vinyl chair. “Listen, I’ll get right to the point. I’ve been looking for your friend, Peggy Briggs. Do you know where she is?”
“Dean Johnson asked me that. And there was a message from the police when I got back on campus this morning. They want to talk to her, too. But—no. No, I haven’t seen Peggy since Wednesday evening. I don’t have any idea where she is. Really.” She flipped her sleek, pale hair back over her shoulder.
She was lying. There’s a certain straightforward earnestness in a student’s eyes when she fibs to a professor. Stephanie Abrams was so goddamned earnest I could have cut it with a knife and spread apple butter on it.
“Stephanie, this is important. Tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know, Professor. Really. If I did, I’d tell you.”
***
“She lies like a rug,” I said to Earlene. We had met at Rudolph’s for lunch. “And she didn’t seem at all worried about her good friend’s whereabouts, so I assume she thinks Peggy’s okay.”
“Students! Sometimes they drive me bonkers. I called Rachel Thompson in the library this morning. Peggy didn’t show up for work again. Her schedule shows two classes this afternoon. What d’ya want to bet she doesn’t show for
them either?”
The waiter approached, a skinny student whose entire head was shaved except for a flop of bleached hair at the crown. Earlene asked for a Caesar salad.
I opened the tall menu, stared mindlessly, then slapped it shut. None of this stylish food appealed. “Earlene, what would you say if I ordered a double martini?”
She pursed her lips. “You’re teaching this afternoon, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Then I’d say you’re out of your mind.” She turned to the waiter. “She’ll have a Caesar salad, too. No martini.” He scribbled on his pad and slouched away.
I shook out the linen napkin and spread it on my lap. “Earlene, I am getting such a sick feeling about Peggy. You know a lot more about her than you’ve told me. You really have to help me out here.”
“Hmm.” She waved at Avery Mitchell, just entering with two white-haired men, both in navy blazers with gold buttons. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. They had to be either college trustees or wealthy alumni ripe for the fleecing.
The waiter delivered a basket of bread, what Amanda calls “holy bread,” presented with such a reverential air it feels like worship to bite into it. I chose a chunk of Russian black bread and lavished it with pale sweet butter. Earlene went for the cornbread with jalapeno.
“So…give,” I demanded.
“Well, okay…since we definitely need to find out what’s going on with her. This is all confidential, Karen….”
“Of course.”
She sighed. “Earlier this spring Peggy had a problem at home that almost caused her to drop out of school. I can’t be more specific about it than that. We were looking into the possibility of college housing for her and her little girl—her niece really—”
“Triste. She told me.”
“Peggy is devoted to her. But it was difficult. You can’t house a child in a dorm, and there were no openings in faculty housing. To tell the truth, I was about to take them in with me until I could work something out. Then Peggy changed her mind, said she had to stay at home—her mother needed her.”
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