She offered to take his coat, but he said he'd just leave it on, reiterating that he couldn't stay long. Naomi didn't press him. She was disappointed he'd found nothing significant in the file, but not surprised. Still, there could be something in there that would be helpful, something Frank or the cops, had missed. She was anxious to do her own read-through, but was careful not to seem to be rushing him. Frank had shown her nothing but kindness from the time she was a little girl; he was the uncle she never had. He was a good guy. Her mother probably should have married him.
"I made copies of the case photos. They won't be easy to look at," he warned.
"I know. I'll handle it. Thanks for including them, for trusting me."
He nodded, then looked away from her, an eyebrow shooting up
"Why is your back door open?"
Naomi turned to see it slightly ajar and alarm shot through her like a sudden infusion of cold water into her veins. "I don't know. I hardly ever use this door. It's always locked." She closed and locked it now.
"You've had a lot on your mind. Maybe you...."
"Yeah, maybe." But she was sure the door had been locked, and even if she was wrong about that, she definitely wouldn't have left it open.
She put the coffee on, seeing in her mind's eye the little clown rocking back and forth on his bars, Molly hissing at the studio door.
Someone unlocked that door from the outside, she thought, setting the cream and sugar on the table. Someone who meant her harm. Her shock at seeing that door open left her with a cold weight of fear in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't have given for that German shepherd the sergeant suggested. One that adored Molly, of course.
Frank was looking worriedly at her; she must look shaken, which reflected the truth of it. "I'm sure you're right, Frank. I guess I just forgot to lock it."
He frowned at her, his expression telling her he was unsatisfied at her answer, and questioning his own initial assessment of her stability. "I'm not so sure. Don't take unnecessary chances, honey. You be careful. Always make sure your windows and doors are locked," he added unnecessarily, going to the kitchen window and peering out into the darkness, hands spread before him on the sill. He turned away after a moment and sat down at the kitchen table. "I think we're in for more rain," he said. "The sky looked pretty angry on the drive here."
Naomi nodded, poured them each a steaming mug of coffee, pushed the pitcher of cream across to Frank and sat down across from him. "And I don't want you driving home in a downpour. Please don't worry about me, Frank. I'll be careful. I promise." She made herself smile.
Questions went round in her mind as she looked at the manila envelope on the table. Did Frank interrupt an intruder? Was that why Molly freaked out? Was there a connection between what was in that envelope and her door being open? Or did she, Naomi, admittedly more than a little scattered of late, leave the door unlocked, not quite closed, and it drifted open on its own? Or was her first instinct right and someone else unlocked it? Questions came full circle, then started round again.
Had the clown really been rocking on his bars, or was her mind playing tricks on her? She didn't voice her questions to Frank, though. It would serve no purpose but to worry him further, and delay the moment when she could be alone with the case file. Besides, she didn't want to keep him from Sam. You could tell he was really worried about his old friend. He'd got Sam as a puppy and was devoted to him. He was his family, like Molly was hers. That was the sad thing about pets, they left you before you were ready to let them go, not that you ever were. I can't imagine this house without Molly in it.
* * *
After Frank left, Naomi returned to the kitchen, opened the manila envelope and slid out the file folder. Before opening it, she wedged a chair under the door knob. It didn't take long to read through the file. Frank was right, there was nothing here she didn't already know, or hadn't read about in the Tribune accounts. No clues, no crumbs she could follow that would lead her to a killer. If she didn't hear from Sergeant Graham Nelson very soon, she would start making some calls on her own. He could call her Nancy Drew if he liked, but if Sergeant Nelson wasn't taking her seriously, then it was up to her to find the evidence that would change that.
She might even take her copy of the tape to a few bars in town and see if anyone recognized the voice. In her business as a voiceover, making the copy had been second nature to her. She always backed up everything. A couple of near-disasters had taught her that lesson well.
Still averting her eyes from the photos in the file, not yet ready emotionally to look at them, she went back over the notes in case she missed something. At a sudden loud crack of thunder, her heart banged against her ribcage and she looked up from the faded yellow page. At once, a flash of blue-white light filled the kitchen and lit up the back field like a surreal stage setting, complete with brush and scraggly trees. Almost simultaneously, the skies opened and the rain fell in torrents, battering the windows, sounding vaguely like applause in some great celestial amphitheatre.
There'll be no one walking around out there tonight, she thought with some relief. She was safe for the time being. No guarantee, of course. It depended on how driven he was. How impatient. He would know she was alone. Stop it! she told herself. You can't even be sure you didn't leave the door open yourself. But she was sure. Deep down, she was sure. She had to find out who he was before it was too late.
A second read-through of the notes left her no better informed than when she began.
Bracing herself, she let out a long, slow breath, then spread out the pictures on the table.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It rained for two days and then the sun came out. Despite a couple of sleepless nights, there were no further disturbing occurrences. On a more pleasant note, Lisa Boyce called, asking her if she was okay. They had a good talk, like old friends. She told her about her fruitless visit to the police station. Other than that, all was quiet. By Sunday, Naomi still had not heard from Sergeant Nelson and figured he had probably dismissed her from his mind the minute she closed the door behind her. Tomorrow she'd call him.
That afternoon she drove out to Fernhill Cemetery. Winding her way up through the narrow path to the gravesite, she parked the car and got out. She retrieved the two bunches of forget-me-nots from the back seat that she'd bought at the city market yesterday and proceeded up the narrow path toward the gravesite.
The air smelled clean after the rain, mingling with the faint scent of damp, upturned earth, the ground spongy beneath her feet. The sun shone weakly through a milky sky. But it was peaceful here, the silence interrupted only by an occasional birdcall, or a car passing by outside the cemetery gates.
She'd chosen for her mother's grave a pink marble headstone, with a dove engraved at the top, bearing an olive branch. As yet, only her name and the dates of her living and dying were carved on it.
Despite Edna's penchant for wanting to run things, the obituary had really been all she was interested in. The responsibility of the funeral and the headstone had fallen to Naomi, which was more than fine with her. She hadn't quite known what to have carved on it though and the man said there would be no problem coming back to the gravesite and etching into the stone whatever she decided. Beloved Wife of Thomas didn't work anymore. 'Beloved Mother of Naomi'?
Yes, that seemed exactly right. Frank was right; in every way that mattered, she was my mother. And to hell with Edna.
Unmindful of the wet grass, Naomi knelt on the ground and set one of the bunches of the tiny blue flowers, her mother's favourites, on her grave. Then she laid her palm flat against the gravestone. At once, a warmth seemed to emanate from deep within the marble, washing through her like a wave of love, bringing tears to her eyes. Her throat thick with emotion, she said softly, "I miss you, Mom. I admit I was really angry at first that you lied to me, especially about … Thomas. But I understand now."
Crazily, she still felt Thomas was her father. She had not come close to severing the ties. "Y
ou did what you thought was right. But now that I do know, please understand that I have to find Mary Rose's killers."
She thought of the horrible pictures she'd made herself look at, every detail burned into her brain. No way would those men get away with what they did to her.
"You were all about fairness, Mom. You were," she whispered. Then she touched her fingertips to her lips and transferred the kiss to her mother's gravestone. Sighing, she rose to her feet. The knees of her jeans were damp from the wet, bits of dirt and grass clinging to them. She brushed them off and looked around, scanning the rows of tombstones of varying sizes and religious statues stretching before her toward the hill and beyond. Frank had said Mary Rose was buried not far from here and gave her directions. "Lili took care of it," he said.
The grave was only a few yards away, the gravestone facing the road, marked with a small ivy-etched white stone bearing only her name, Mary Rose Francis, and the dates of her living and dying. As she set the second bouquet of forget-me-nots on the grave, propping it against the stone, she wondered what her favourite flowers had been. She would never know.
With a prickling at the back of her neck, Naomi stood up and looked off to her right, half expecting to see someone standing there, another mourner perhaps, coming to visit a loved one's grave. But there was no one there. A fleeting shadow, come and gone in an instant. Someone crouched behind a gravestone? Kids playing? She stared at the spot for several seconds before she gave a mental shrug and looked away. Maybe a bird or a small animal. But the sensation of someone watching her remained.
She turned full circle, slowly, and was about to look away from where she'd seen or imagined the shadow when she caught a flicker of movement up on the hill, by the looming marble statue of Jesus on the cross. She stared at the place where she had caught the movement, but again saw no one. The flicker of motion had come and gone in an instant. But the feeling that she was being watched stayed with her, clinging to her skin like cobwebs in a dank cellar, and she knew it had nothing to do with simply being in a cemetery. She had no aversion to cemeteries. On the contrary, Naomi had always found walking through a cemetery a quiet, serene experience. Reading the names and dates on old grave markers, imagining the lives of the people buried there, wondering about their dreams and sadnesses, their triumphs, brought her a sense of peace and continuity to her own life.
Gazing toward the hill, she remembered that this was the same graveyard where Charles Seaton had once worked as a caretaker. It would have been right about there, near the statue of Jesus when he heard her screams, saw the men force her into the car. He would have been walking along the path, unprepared by what he saw, the full reality of what was happening not registering until it was too late. Maybe if the man had yelled out … if … She stopped herself. You can't change the past with what-ifs.
But knowing the past, you can carve out a future. She had come into this life for a reason, to make sure the crime didn't go unpunished. She didn't necessarily think that was her only purpose for being on the earth, but it was an important one. She believed that. She also believed someone wanted to make sure she failed at her mission.
Naomi made her way down the slight slope of wet, slippery grass toward her car, and was glad to see a maroon Buick pull in behind hers and an elderly man and woman get out. The man had his arm draped around the woman's shoulders. The woman smiled at Naomi as she passed. "Lovely day after all the rain," she said, and there was a small sadness in her voice. The man merely nodded, his attention on the woman.
Naomi could see the bus stop from here, glassed-in now. There was no one waiting on this warm, peaceful day. A light breeze came up and stirred her hair. Within its soft sigh, she imagined she heard the cries of a young girl. Cries that once rose from this very place, and now echoed across the vast plains of time to me, her child.
I hear you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the hallway, Naomi's took off her wet sneakers and socks and left them on the mat. She then went on into the kitchen and plugged the kettle in, some part of her already sensing something wrong in the house. Nothing she could identify. There were the usual sounds, the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock: normally familiar, welcoming sounds.
But as she stood there idly watching the steam escape the kettle's spout, something darker began to eclipse the welcoming of home. The knowledge of what it was came suddenly, like a blow to the midsection. During the time she was at the cemetery, someone was here, in her house. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and the clammy hand of fear crept up between her shoulder blades as she realized something else: Molly hadn't come padding out to greet her as she always did. Molly! Where was Molly? A cold dread tightened around her heart.
I've drawn a terrible darkness into my life, she thought.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"He was letting me know he can get to me any time he chooses," she told Sergeant Nelson the following morning. "Even in broad daylight … he's telling me to back off."
After listening to what she had to say, Sergeant Nelson sat thoughtfully, twirling a pen in his hand. He hadn't seemed altogether pleased to have her show up unannounced, but was pleasant enough to her, even sympathetic, she thought.
"He could have killed her," she said adamantly.
"You don't know that it was...." He drew a scrap of paper to him, and began jotting down notes with the pen in his hand. Or he might have been just doodling for all she knew, waiting for her to give it up and go home.
"Yes, I do know. She was upset. I think she's okay now." Molly mewed loudly from her travel carrier at Naomi's feet, as if to disagree with her diagnosis of her emotional state.
Naomi had been beside herself when she couldn't find her. Then she heard her cries. Upstairs in her room, the dresser drawer open a couple of inches, and she had been afraid to look, to cross the room, afraid of what she would see. Molly's glowing green eyes had peered up at her from her dark interior of the drawer, and Naomi's relief that she was okay had been overwhelming.
"No way I was going to leave her alone again."
"Apparently," he said, frowning down at Molly who was in her carrier at Naomi's feet.
"Well, you wanted evidence. I think he also came into my house the other night. A friend rang the front doorbell and scared him off."
"Did you actually see him running away?" he said with maddening calm.
"No. But the back door was unlocked, open. I always lock it." She wasn't positive, but after what happened with Molly, she'd bet on it.
He put the pen down, looked at her with something between pity and annoyance. She thought he looked flushed, despite his calm demeanor.
"This is mere speculation on your part. I can't launch a manhunt, Miss Waters, based on this kind of non-evidence. As for this latest incident, if there was one, no one was killed or even hurt. Not even the cat," he added, with a wry grin down at Molly. At the look that must have been on Naomi's face, the grin vanished.
"Not this time," she said, not missing that he had gone from calling her Naomi to addressing her as Miss Waters.
"I think you're overreacting. Topsy probably jumped into—"
"Molly," she corrected.
"Molly probably jumped into the drawer on her own. Crawled up the back of the dresser and into the drawer. I've had cats, they do that. Or maybe you've got a mouse you don't know about and she was chasing it. Look, I'm not surprised you're feeling a little jumpy. Who knows what kind of lowlife that story in the paper might have scared up. But I doubt they've been in your house while you weren't home and put the cat in a dresser drawer. What would be the point of that?"
"A warning. What else? And if she got into that drawer on her own, why didn't she come out on her own?"
"Why should she? She heard you calling to her. She was waiting for you come and get her."
He had an answer for everything. But she had to admit that what he said made sense. Regardless, she had no intention of leaving her alone in the house again.<
br />
Through the large window behind Sergeant Nelson, Naomi could see a man standing on a ladder working on a sign over the door of Aiken's Print Shop across the street. Above him, the sky was enamel blue, marred only by a few fluffy clouds. A beautiful day. She barely noticed the weather these days.
The sergeant sighed. "Look, I know you're upset and Kitty is probably sensing that. The thing is, you opened this can of worms yourself. You mentioned someone coming into your house the other night. Did they break the lock?"
"No. The door was ajar when I went out to the kitchen."
"You've been a little distracted. You've probably forgot to lock it."
"There's not a doubt in my mind that it was him. He's running scared, worried I might find out who he is and send him to prison where he belongs. Where he would have been a long time ago if the police had done their job."
He started to argue but she cut him off. "You have the tape I gave you. Couldn't you check out some of the local bars and listen for a similar voice?" She heard the plea in her voice. "I could go with you. I...."
"And which bar did you have in mind? We've got half a dozen in River's End. You could hang around for a month and get nothing. Your caller might have been home with the radio playing. Or sitting in his car. Look, if you get any more calls, note the date and time. Record them. We'll go from there. In the meantime, be careful. Maybe there's someone who could stay with you until...."
She stood up, her sigh of 'What's the use?' audible even to her.
She picked up the carrier by the handle. It seemed heavier somehow. "Thanks for your time, Sergeant Nelson."
"If you want my advice," he said to her back, "you'd put all this nasty business in the past where it belongs and move on with your life."
"I can't do that," she told him, without looking back. Suddenly more tired than she could ever remember being, hot tears pressing against her lids, she opened the door. She had her hand on the knob when he called her back. He had come out from behind the desk. "Please, Naomi. Hold on a second."
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 11
