I turned it over, lifted it out, and put the metal box back. When I put the slip on his desk, something written on it caught my eye. I lifted it and read it. It was a receipt from a shop in Pomona, which was east of Los Angeles.
It was a costume rental store.
It was for a Santa outfit.
14
The Receipt
My legs were actually trembling. I gazed around the room for a moment and then hurried out to the kitchen to get a glass of cold water. I stared at the receipt on the kitchen counter. The date on it was two days before Mary’s abduction. That day, that month, and even those hours were branded on my brain.
When I reached for the phone, I could see my fingers were trembling worse than my legs. I think what upset me the most was not knowing what the receipt meant. If a man dressed as Santa hadn’t been the subject of some interest for both Sam and the FBI, it would mean nothing, of course. It was simply that anything and everything that had to do with Mary’s disappearance loomed larger than life for me. Slowly, taking a breath practically after each number I pressed on the key pad, I called Sam’s cell phone.
“Abraham,” he answered. I could tell that he was in his car speaking through his Bluetooth connection.
“Sam . . .” My throat closed.
“Grace? What’s up?”
I rushed it out before I choked up again. “Sam, I was looking in a drawer in John’s desk for some spare cash we keep in a metal box, and I found a receipt under the box.”
“Yeah? So?”
I nearly laughed. Sometimes when you’re very excited and you’re on the phone, you forget that the person you’re speaking to hasn’t seen what you’ve seen or isn’t looking at what you’re looking at. It’s not unusual. People talk with their hands while they speak on the phone all the time, and what is sillier than that? Italians were supposedly the most known for it, and the joke was that they didn’t even need the phone. It got in the way.
“The receipt is from a costume store. It’s for a Santa outfit.” He didn’t respond. “Sam!”
“Take it easy,” he said.
“I don’t know what it means,” I said, fighting back the tears.
“Grace, all it means right now is that a Santa costume was rented. Calm down. Who is listed on the receipt as the customer?“
“The customer?” I looked at it. “John signed it.”
He was silent for a few moments, and those few moments intensified the fire burning under my breasts.
“Okay. Did his company have a Christmas party?”
“What?”
“Most companies throw a party for their employees. Does John’s? Did you ever attend one?”
I felt my body soften. It was as if I was a balloon version of myself and air was seeping out as I settled in my clothes.
“Yes, yes, they do, and I’ve been to a few, actually, all of them except for the one the Christmas after Mary’s abduction.”
“Okay. Did someone play Santa at the party?”
“Yes,” I said. “But never John,” I quickly added.
“That doesn’t matter. John’s their business manager. It’s his job to keep track of receipts. The party was a company expense, I’m sure.”
“Maybe,” I said. “He just doesn’t . . . I mean, I don’t think he ever brings company receipts home.”
“Maybe he picked this one up and forgot about it. Where was the shop? I know the agency checked every damn one in Los Angeles.”
“Pomona,” I said.
“Um . . . maybe someone at the company lives near there or something. The agency couldn’t check every costume shop in the state. Anyway, I’m beginning to believe that whoever is involved here is not just operating in California, Grace. The costume, if indeed it was part of the abduction MO, could have come from anywhere in the country.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Grace, don’t create more static at home for yourself and John. Put the receipt back where you found it, and forget it.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right. Sam?” I added before he could sign off.
“Yes?”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow. Please. Let’s see each other when you get back.”
“I won’t be free until about nine, nine-thirty, Grace. Thanks to David, I’m having dinner with some FBI agents to continue to talk about Mary’s disappearance.”
“It’s okay. I’ll meet you at your apartment. Call me when you’re close to getting home.”
There was that clear moment of hesitation, but then he agreed, and I hung up. I didn’t care if I was forcing myself on him. I had to know what he and the FBI were doing on Mary’s case.
Margaret was sounding her horn. She was in my driveway. I sucked in some air and counted to ten. That, plus Sam’s calm and logical analysis of the receipt, calmed me. I hurried back into John’s office, put the receipt back where I had found it, and hurried out to get into Margaret’s car.
“Oh, how nice you look,” she said.
“For me, the bar has been quite lowered when it comes to looking nice, Margaret.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked as she backed out of our driveway.
“Considering what people expect me to look like, it’s not hard to invite compliments when I brush my hair and wash my face.”
“Oh, away with ye, dear. You’re one of those women who can’t look bad no matter how hard they try,” Margaret said.
As Margaret navigated through the Brentwood streets and then into West Los Angeles, it occurred to me that I had never been driven by her anywhere. It was always the other way around. Right now, she looked so cool and confident to me, and as always, modestly elegant. I say modestly because Margaret rarely wore much jewelry other than her cross and her wedding ring. She didn’t spend a great deal of money on her clothes and her shoes. Somehow, because of the way she took care of her things and the way she wore them, they didn’t look terribly out of style or worn.
There was never any question in my mind that Margaret had lived a harder life than I had. I knew it broke her heart that she had never had children, but being a practicing Catholic, she would never even contemplate divorcing her husband. I think she never agreed to adopting because she had lived with the hope that something miraculous would occur and that one day, even in her forties, she would get pregnant. After that, she had thought herself too old to adopt a young child anyway, and then her husband had his heart attack, and in her way of thinking, she was to be forever a widow. She was very critical of single parents and never in a million years would become one.
That was all why Margaret grew so attached to Mary and had become a part of our family. I had to admit that sometimes I was jealous of Mary’s affection for Margaret. I was afraid that she would have a bigger influence on her than I would. Even at two, Mary was repeating some of Margaret’s adages, and sometimes I thought she sounded as Irish as Margaret. However, if I made any comment that was even slightly critical of Margaret’s relationship with Mary, John would pounce. He always came quickly to her defense, just as he did now.
And yet as I watched and listened to her on our way to the senior center, I couldn’t help but still be somewhat envious of her. She always had a glow about her, a wonderful emotional balance that gave her an innocent beauty, the kind of beauty usually found only in the young, the virginal young. I would never deny that she took Mary’s abduction almost as hard as I did, but almost immediately afterward, she could handle it. She could live with it mainly because of her faith. It did the same thing for her that it did for John. I was envious of them both now for having it, but I was still afraid of it, afraid of the acceptance.
“I know that when you see these people, you’re going to be reminded of a room full of young children, even though some of them will be dressed to the nines,” Margaret warned. “They’ll complain if they see that someone else
has more or something better, mark my word. Some of them can be terribly impatient, and some of them might be terribly demanding. They might forget to say please and thank you, just like some unschooled tykes. But it doesn’t take much to depress them, either, and get them narky. Then they’ll start on the litany of their complaints and rabbit on, talking about their illnesses, the cost of their medications, the usual food they have to eat, and their ungrateful families.”
“It doesn’t sound like something you can come away from feeling invigorated, Margaret.”
“Oh, but you do,” she insisted. “Despite all that, you’ll feel their appreciation. Everyone needs someone to love and appreciate.”
“What about you?” I asked, the question coming out before I had time to reconsider how cruel it might sound.
Naturally, Margaret did not take it that way. “Well, I have you and John, and someday, I hope to have Mary again and . . .” She turned to me and smiled. “Perhaps her little sister or brother? I know she wants one.”
“What do you really think of Mary?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you think she has the miraculous power to help people? Did she cure the Middleton boy, help Laurie James’s son, and put that woman into remission simply by touching them? Is that what you told people, Margaret?”
“Oh, I never said it like that to any of these people, dear.”
“What did you say, Margaret?”
She looked at me. We were about to pull into the senior center’s parking lot. “What I believe,” she replied.
“What exactly is that, Margaret?”
“That God can work miracles through any of us if He so chooses.” She pulled into a parking space.
“Is that what’s happening here?” I asked, nodding toward the building. “God is working miracles through you and the other volunteers, too?”
“Oh, no, dear,” she said, smiling. “Everyone in there still has his or her backaches, high blood pressure, diabetes, and arthritis, believe me. No one has regained a breath of youth. There’s been no laying on of hands here, except to do something mercifully charitable. It makes you feel better, even better than they do,” she added. “Give it a try.”
She opened her door. I hesitated.
“I hope I’m not going to hear a lot of consoling, Margaret. I’ll feel trapped in there.”
“Don’tcha think I know that, dear? Everyone knows what you’ve suffered, but no one is going to dwell on it. I can guarantee that.”
“What did you do, warn them I was coming and tell them to mind their p’s and q’s?”
“Of course,” she said.
I had to laugh, and then I stepped out into the bright sunshine. It was funny how more often than not these past months, I was unaware of whether it was overcast or sunny when I stepped out of the house. The joke about people in Southern California was that they were oblivious about the weather because, except for the June gloom at the beaches, it was always the same. The weatherman could tape his report a week before sometimes.
“When days are as glorious as this,” Margaret said, seeing me squint, “you can’t help but believe there’s good about.”
She reached toward me as if I were adrift and she could pull me to safety. I took her hand.
“Try to have faith, dear,” she said. “No matter how long the day, the evening will come.”
“Not my day,” I said. “And I don’t look forward much to evenings anymore.”
She ignored that, kept her smile, and led me to the entrance. The senior center had a small lobby brightened by a skylight window, but the center itself was really just one big room with long tables now covered with white paper tablecloths. There was a kitchen behind it. The settings on the tables consisted of paper plates, paper cups, and plastic forks, spoons, and knives. To take away from the austere appearance, vases of fake colorful flowers were spaced along the tables. The walls had clean light brown paneling, and the floor was a dark brown Spanish title. The walls held plaques given out at senior events, pictures of presidents and governors, and pictures of philanthropic benefactors. Two women were putting jugs of water on the tables. They waved to Margaret and waited for us to enter.
“This is my neighbor, Grace Clark,” Margaret said. “Grace, this is Sheila Bracken and Delores McMann.”
Both wiped their hands on their aprons and held them out at once. I greeted them both but kept my gaze on Sheila. I was expecting them to look uncomfortable, not knowing what to say, but neither lost her smile. Margaret apparently had given them firm orders that included “not a drop of sadness splashed on your face.” I could hear her say it.
“Welcome to the feed,” Delores said. “Just watch your hand if you put something on the table in front of one of our guests. Some of them are downright cannibals.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Margaret said. “Don’t go turning her into a Nervous Nelly. She’ll move so much on her toes that she’ll look like she’s in a ballet.”
They both laughed.
“Irma and Mr. Packwood are in the kitchen,” Delores said. She widened her big brown eyes and lifted her eyebrows, deepening the furrows in her forehead. “Someone forgot the napkins.” She swung her eyes toward Sheila.
“No one told me in so many words,” Sheila said in her defense.
“How many words does it take?” Delores retorted. “You know how we go through them. Anyway, I sent Mr. Huber out for a couple of cases. Mr. Huber looks after the building,” she told me. “We do lunches five times a week, and every other weekend, we hold a dance with refreshments.”
“A dance?”
“Slow,” Sheila said. “Five steps a minute.”
The two of them laughed.
“Blarney. I’ve seen a few of them tear up a rug,” Margaret said. “How about Mr. Martin and that Mrs. Stern? She taught ballroom dancing, you know.”
“I thought she might have done that,” Sheila said.
“Well, let’s get to it,” Margaret said. “They’ll be on us like locusts in two shakes of a rabbit’s tail.” She turned to me. “Whoever said older people have small appetites was either a hog himself or dumber than a doornail.”
The other two women laughed, and then we all headed for the kitchen.
After I was introduced to Irma Kaplan and Simon Packwood, the head cook, Margaret announced that I made the best potato salad she had ever eaten, and that was quickly my assignment. Neither of them had much of a reaction to the mention of my name. I glanced at Margaret. She kept her Mona Lisa smile, but I could see that she was proud of the way everyone was heeding her warnings.
I was ambivalent about it. Even though it made things easier for me, I couldn’t help being a little upset that anyone could put aside my tragedy as easily as they might a flat tire or a broken appliance. To stop thinking about it, I got busy quickly. Less than a half-hour later, the seniors began arriving. I could hear the chatter and the laughter, but I kept to working in the kitchen. I was hoping for an opportunity to speak with Sheila alone.
But that didn’t come easily. Margaret had been right about how demanding the seniors were. As soon as we had the luncheon prepared, we were all out there serving and rushing around to get this or that. Someone wanted colder water, someone else asked for more macaroni and cheese, others wanted the bread that was on another table, someone else complained about her chair and needed another. I found most of them cheerful and appreciative, however, all the men giving me compliments when I was introduced to them. When there was a pause before dessert, the head of the center, a man named Carl Souter, began to speak, introducing officers and some benefactors who had attended.
Sheila retreated to the kitchen with Irma to prepare the desserts. I followed, and when I had the chance, I asked Sheila to tell me exactly what Laurie James had told her about her friend.
“Oh, you heard that story?” she asked in return.
“Of course. Where were you when Laurie told it to you?”
“We were at lunch in Century City, that fusion place.”
She described the incident on the steps of the church exactly the way Margaret had described it to me.
“Who else heard the story?”
She listed the names of the other women. I knew one of them, Carla Shanley, but only because of her infamous sister, Alice Francis, a Sister of Mercy who had received an automatic excommunication because of her role in an abortion for a critically ill pregnant woman at the hospital in Nevada where she had worked for nearly twenty years. Sister Alice claimed that a nurse had merely laid her hands on the woman’s stomach and she went into a spontaneous abortion. The church did not accept her story. It was the subject of debates at our church for a long time. John supported the church’s decision, of course. Margaret felt sorry for Sister Alice.
“I imagine your daughter was bothered a lot by people looking for miracles,” Sheila said. “That’s what everyone at the table predicted, and everyone felt sorry for her. It can be quite traumatizing for a little girl like yours, although I must say, she didn‘t seem at all disturbed when I saw her.”
“If any more of that was happening, I didn’t know of it,” I said. “I didn’t even know about that time you’ve described.”
She looked at me oddly. “We all feel so sorry for you and your husband. I know it’s been so long. Is it hopeless?”
Suddenly, I felt a wave of nausea and was a little dizzy.
“I’ll never accept that it is,” I said, and walked out of the kitchen.
The speeches had just ended. Not everyone was staying for dessert. Margaret was helping a woman to her walker. I tapped her on the arm as soon as she was finished.
“I’ve got to go home,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Helplessly, she looked around at all the work left to do.
“Don’t worry. I can call a cab,” I said. I took out my cell phone and started for the lobby.
Capturing Angels Page 19
