Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  “Whatever,” Klein said irritably. He looked back at Cora, who was now striding rapidly toward us, still ranting. Klein stepped into his trailer, and as he did so, I maneuvered my fingers around the edge of the cork Tiny had stuck in the depression, pulled it out, and palmed it, lowering my hand to my side. Klein turned and glared at me. “I’ve had about all I can take today,” he said, his face a thundercloud of anger.

  I started to say something more, but Klein pulled the door shut, nearly knocking me off the steps for real this time.

  I looked toward Cora and gave her a quick thumbs-up. She spun around and went after Tiny and Clay, both of whom began a hasty retreat toward the work area. A quick glance told me that Mal and Duncan were still hunched down beside the truck. I walked a few steps away from the trailer and then turned back to look at it. I saw Klein’s face appear in the window, but when he saw me looking at him, he quickly retreated. Feigning frustration, I turned and stomped off toward the main street.

  Duncan and Mal met me seconds later, and we continued our way back to where Duncan had parked the car. Cora, Clay, and Tiny met us there a few minutes after that.

  “Holy crap!” Cora said, a huge smile on her face. “That was fun!”

  “I didn’t t’ink so,” Tiny said with a frown.

  “Did it work?” Clay asked. “Please tell me you got what you need.”

  Mal smiled at them. “I did. Thanks to all of you.”

  “And you swear you won’t let anyone else have this when you’re ready to bust Klein?” Clay said, looking from Mal to Duncan and back again. “I get an exclusive, right?”

  “It will be all yours,” Duncan told him.

  “I need to go get my car,” Tiny said. “I’m done working for dis guy.”

  Cora looked at me. “Can you do without me for a little while? I’d like to go with Tiny.”

  Judging from the excited, flushed look on Cora’s face, I had a good idea what they’d be doing for the next hour or two. “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Where’s your car?” Cora said, grabbing Tiny’s hand and pulling him away. I started to think they might not make it out of the parking lot before Cora ravaged the poor guy. The two of them headed off, and the rest of us climbed into Duncan’s car.

  No one said a word as Duncan started up the engine and pulled out. As soon as we left the industrial park, I said, “I think this calls for a celebration. The drinks and lunch are on me.”

  “It’s too soon to celebrate,” Duncan said. “We need to look at what Mal got, analyze it, and see if it’s what he thinks it is. Then we have to convince a judge to give us a search warrant.”

  “Oh, come on,” I pleaded. “You have to eat.”

  “I am kind of hungry,” Mal said.

  The corners of Duncan’s mouth twitched up into what was almost a smile. “Okay. I know when I’m outnumbered.”

  I clapped my hands together and said, “Good.”

  Duncan shot me a look. “You seem quite jazzed by all this,” he observed. “You do realize how dangerous that stunt you pulled back there was, don’t you?”

  I did. And my pounding heart, which still hadn’t fully settled back into a normal rhythm, was proof of it. But a part of me also agreed with Cora. The stunt had been nerve-racking and tense. But it had also been a slice of exhilarating fun.

  Chapter 26

  I ordered up food and drinks for all of us when we got back to the bar, and because the bar had just opened, I took everyone upstairs to my apartment to eat so we could have some privacy. The O’Reilly clan had been the perfect houseguests. The apartment was spick-and-span clean, the beds had been stripped and the linens were in the dryer, and all the dishes were clean and put away. Except for the naked beds, it was hard to tell anyone had even been there.

  We gathered around the dining room table and, while we ate, rehashed the entire affair, recalling how we had experienced both amusement and panic during various aspects of it. Several times I caught Duncan staring at me with expressions that ranged from wistful to annoyed, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of what I had done during our escapade or my ambivalence about his proposal the night before. I decided it was probably both.

  When Duncan wasn’t watching me, he and Mal were going over the photos Mal had taken with his digital camera. They seemed excited at the mention of several names and dates they found among the photographed pages, and I had a feeling Wade Klein’s days as a contractor were coming to an end. This was good news, but it still hadn’t brought us any closer to figuring out who had killed Sheldon Janssen. At one point I excused myself from the group to use the bathroom. When I was done, I took a moment to check my reflection in the mirror. This crime-solving stuff suited me. My complexion was rosy, my eyes were bright, and my face looked smooth and relaxed. Maybe it wasn’t the work, I thought. Maybe it was Duncan’s proposal.

  As I studied my face in the mirror, I felt a familiar sensation. My mirror image always made my face crawl, for lack of a better word. It felt as if my skin was trying to rearrange itself. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling, just peculiar. And I’d experienced it thousands of times in my life. But this time, an alarm went off in my brain. Something about the experience felt different . . . more important. I’d felt this sensation recently, but in a different context. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out what my mind was trying to tell me. And then I remembered. I’d had the same sensation when I was looking at Peace Vanderzandt.

  My eyes flew open and I turned away, my thoughts racing. Things started clicking—literally, because I could hear a faint clicking type of noise in my head—and my heart started to race. I bolted out of the bathroom and joined the others.

  They were laughing at something, no doubt some retelling of the adventure we had just shared, and I stood at the head of the table and waited for them to settle down. Slowly, they all turned to look at me.

  “What is it, Mack?” Duncan said. He put down the french fry he’d been about to pop in his mouth and stared at me.

  “You need to call Ms. Parnell,” I said.

  “Okay,” Duncan said slowly. “Want to tell me why?”

  “She said she had a copy of Felicity’s birth certificate. I want to check the birthdate on it.”

  Duncan narrowed his eyes at me; the others just stared. “Want to tell me why?” Duncan asked.

  “Not yet. I need to check on something.”

  Duncan arched his eyebrows, took out his phone, and punched in the number. Everyone’s attention had shifted to him. The room was utterly silent. Ms. Parnell must have answered because Duncan said hello, said who he was, and then asked her if she could please tell him what Felicity’s birthdate was on her birth certificate.

  “No,” I said. “Not Felicity’s. Hope’s.”

  Duncan’s brow furrowed, and he amended his request. Then he looked at me and said, “She’s pulling the birth certificate from her file.” While he waited, Duncan propped the phone against his shoulder and removed his notebook and pen from the pocket of his jacket, which was draped over the chair back behind him. Seconds later, he started writing. I walked over and peered over his shoulder at the date: September 16, 1985. When he was done writing it down, he thanked Ms. Parnell and gave me a questioning look. I shook my head, and he said good-bye and disconnected the call. Then he looked at me again. “Well?” he said.

  “Check the driver’s license info you have on your phone on Peace Vanderzandt,” I said. “What’s her birthday?”

  Duncan started tapping at the screen on his phone. A moment later, he said, “September 16, 1985.” He looked back at me, his eyes wide.

  I smiled at him. “That’s it!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Hope and Peace weren’t just sisters; they were twins. But not identical twins, mirror twins.” I saw looks of skepticism on some of the faces staring at me. “Think about it,” I said. “No one’s face is exactly symmetrical. There are subtle differences in the shape of the eyes, the height of the eyes, the lay of the mouth, the overall
structure, even where one’s hair parts. Peace and Hope are twins, but their facial shapes and structures are the opposite of each other, like a mirror image.” I still saw some doubt, so I continued my explanation. “I get a weird sensation when I look at my own mirror image, and just now in the bathroom, I remembered that I got the same sensation when we met Peace and I looked at her. It was right after studying the picture of Peace that Duncan had on his phone.”

  Several seconds of silence ensued as the group contemplated what I was saying and the ramifications of it all. It was Clay who finally broke the silence. “So, what are you saying, Mack?”

  “I’m saying Peace Vanderzandt isn’t really Peace Vanderzandt. It’s Hope! She has taken on her sister’s identity.”

  “So what happened to Peace?” Mal asked.

  “My guess is that she’s the one who died, not Hope. I’ll bet that’s why Peace, or rather Hope, visited Sheldon. She was looking for Felicity. She found out Sheldon had pulled her from the facility, and she wanted to know where she was. And I’m betting that’s why Felicity said little peach killed her father.” I looked at Mal. “You said Sheldon once referred to Felicity as his little peach, right?” Mal nodded. “And Norman Chandler told us that Sheldon picked up that nickname from Hope. Maybe it was a take on her sister’s name; you know, Little Peace as opposed to Little Peach? Anyway, I’m betting it was Hope who killed Sheldon.”

  “But why?” Clay said.

  “I’m not sure on that count,” I admitted. “Perhaps she was angry with him for taking Felicity. Maybe she wanted her back, or wanted to know where she was, and Sheldon wouldn’t tell her. Or maybe she wanted to take Felicity without Sheldon being able to come after her.”

  “Then why didn’t she?” Duncan asked. “If she was there in his house, and Felicity saw her, why didn’t Hope just take her daughter?”

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place for me. “Because she didn’t see Felicity. Felicity saw her, but Hope probably ran from that house in a hurry after shooting Sheldon. Felicity saw Mal, remember? Yet he didn’t see her. I’m betting Hope didn’t either. Felicity probably heard the raised voices and came out of her hiding place. When a shot was fired, it probably frightened her, and she hid somewhere else. She might have been afraid at first, but eventually, she thought about coming out of her hiding place to see what was going on. But then the door opened again, so she stayed hidden and saw her mother come in.”

  “It makes some sense,” Mal said.

  “Of course it does,” I said. “Think about it. When we told Peace, who I now believe was Hope, about trying to find someone to take care of Felicity, she looked shocked. And then, after saying she had no interest at all in taking in the girl, she kept insisting she wanted to meet her. Why? I think it’s because she thought Felicity was dead.”

  “I’m with Clay,” Mal said, looking puzzled. “Why would Hope kill Sheldon? He was her main chance at finding Felicity.”

  I shrugged. “Revenge? Anger? Maybe he flipped Hope’s trick back on her and told her that Felicity was dead, and that set her off. Maybe there was a struggle similar to what you experienced.” I paused and shrugged. “Only Hope herself can answer that question.”

  “Then we best have another chat with her,” Duncan said. “I’m glad I put some guys on a watch over her.” He started tapping at his phone again, and made arrangements for the local cops to bring in the woman they thought was Peace Vanderzandt. When he was done, he looked over at me with a smile. “Ready for another interview?” he said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Do I get an exclusive on this one, too?” Clay asked.

  “It’s all yours,” Duncan told him. “Let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Duncan and I walked into an interview room in Duncan’s police station. Seated inside was a very irate Peace Vanderzandt, who I now felt certain was really Hope Vanderzandt Janssen.

  “I don’t appreciate being left to sit here for an hour without knowing what’s going on,” she snapped as soon as we walked in. Just before entering the room, I had once again examined the photo of Peace. Now, as I looked at the woman before me, I had that crawly sensation in my face and scalp.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” Duncan said.

  “Where is Felicity?” she demanded. “I thought I was being brought here to see her.”

  “Yes, well, that’s not exactly true,” Duncan said.

  Peace/Hope looked from Duncan to me and back at Duncan again. “What’s going on here?”

  “Ms. Vanderzandt, there are some questions about the death of your brother-in-law that we need to clear up first. And before we do that, I need to inform you of your rights. It’s a standard thing whenever we talk to someone here.” Duncan read her the Miranda warning. “Do you wish to have an attorney present?” he asked her.

  “What for? I haven’t done anything. Only guilty people need attorneys, right?”

  I knew she was lying when she said she hadn’t done anything, and I gave Duncan a look and a slight nod.

  “Ms. Vanderzandt, I understand your sister and you were identical twins; is that correct?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “So?”

  “So before we can let you see Felicity, we need to verify your identity.”

  “Seriously?” she said, gaping at him. “What do you want, a driver’s license? A passport? I have both in my purse.”

  The fact that she had a passport with her was concerning. It wasn’t the sort of thing one carried around every day.

  “No, that won’t suffice,” Duncan said. “Those are photo IDs, and given that you and your sister are identical twins, it isn’t enough.”

  She frowned at him. “What, then? Fingerprints? DNA?”

  “Well,” Duncan said, leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers together, “identical twins have identical DNA, so that won’t help. Fingerprints might, because identical twins don’t have matching fingerprints, and we do have your sister’s on file from her autopsy. Unfortunately, we have nothing to compare them to. Neither of you was ever fingerprinted before.”

  The woman fumed and started tapping one foot in irritation.

  “However, there are some differences between the two of you that we can use.” Duncan unlaced his fingers and leaned forward, picking up and opening a manila folder he’d brought into the room with him.

  Peace/Hope stopped tapping her foot and leaned forward. “Such as?” she said, her voice sounding wary.

  “Such as scars. We were able to find an accident report on file, a motor vehicle accident involving Peace Vanderzandt. Do you recall that accident?” Duncan asked.

  For the first time, the crusty façade showed a crack. She stared at Duncan, saying nothing.

  “No?” Duncan said. “Well, let me refresh your memory. You were involved in a two-car accident four years ago in which you were hit broadside by an elderly motorist who ran a stop light and hit your car. The impact caved in the driver’s side door of your car. You sustained several injuries, including a bruise to your left arm and leg, and a rather severe cut on your left arm from the broken glass in the door window. According to the accident report and the ER visit record that followed, that injury required ten stitches.”

  Duncan closed the file and tossed it back on the table. “So the identification is relatively simple,” he said, lacing his fingers again. He focused his gaze on her left arm, currently obscured by the long-sleeved sweater she was wearing. “Show us the scar on your left arm.”

  A good ten seconds ticked by as Peace/Hope squirmed in her chair, her face contorting into various expressions that ranged from fear, to anger, to resignation, and then back to anger again.

  “This is insulting and ridiculous,” she said, shoving her left arm through the straps of her purse, pushing out of her chair, and grabbing her coat where it hung on the back of it. “I don’t have to put up with this kind of treatment from the likes of you.” She spun around and headed
for the door, pulling it open.

  On the other side of the door stood two uniformed police officers who blocked her way. Peace/Hope stood there and stared at them for several beats. Then her shoulders sagged, and she spun back toward us. “That accident report is wrong,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice. I think even she knew this argument was a feeble one that wouldn’t help her out of her jam.

  Duncan said, “Show me your left arm.”

  “I don’t have to do that,” she insisted, thrusting her chin at him in defiance.

  “Okay,” Duncan said. “But you aren’t going to leave here yet. We’re going to hold you. We can get a search warrant to inspect your arm, and even if you try to claim the accident and ER reports are false, we can check your fingerprints to verify who you are.”

  Peace/Hope looked confused. “But you said you don’t have any fingerprints to compare to.”

  “Yes, well that wasn’t exactly true. You see, your sister worked as a dealer for the Potawatomi Casino for a few months several years ago, and to work there, you have to be fingerprinted. We’re waiting for the records to show up, and when they do, we should be able to prove who you really are.”

  All the woman’s angry bravado evaporated. She walked back over to the chair and sank into it, collapsing like a deflated balloon.

  “You’re Hope Janssen, aren’t you?” Duncan said. His tone wasn’t accusatory. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was soothing and conciliatory, tasting like smooth milk chocolate.

  Hope nodded, her head hung in misery. Duncan waited, and after a moment, she lifted her head and looked at him. “Where did Sheldon put Felicity?”

  “She lived with him,” Duncan said.

  Hope looked confused. “But when I found him, I staked out his place for several weeks, and I never saw her come or go from there. And when I went into his house that day, there was no sign of her.”

  “He built a special little hidden cubbyhole for her,” Duncan told her. “She was there the whole time. She saw what you did to her father.”