“Shh,” Amanda said suddenly. I looked up expectantly, hoping Sheila had finally answered, but instead I heard a faint buzzing noise. It sounded twice and went silent.
“I think the phone is here somewhere,” Amanda whispered, dialing the number again. This time we both stood frozen, listening for the sound. It came again. Clearer now that we were both focused on the noise. We followed the sound to a stack of wooden produce crates. I peered into the top crate and saw the light of a phone set to vibrate jittering against the side.
I dug the phone out and handed it to Amanda. She hung up her own phone and stood looking at the two devices in her hands. “This isn’t good, is it?
“No,” I said, feeling my heart rate increase. “I can’t see her leaving and not taking her phone unless she was forced to.”
Amanda was beginning to tremble. I put an arm around her shoulder and led her back up to the warmth of the kitchen. “What on earth was she doing in the basement in the middle of the night?” Amanda asked.
“Don’t automatically assume the worst,” I said, trying to be positive. “She could’ve dropped her phone in the cellar earlier in the day. I’d imagine she’s in and out of there all the time.”
“I suppose.” Amanda looked miserable.
“You said Sheila’s husband was in jail, right? Any chance he was released recently?”
“The police are supposed to let her know, but maybe they didn’t,” Amanda replied. “I’m sure she would have told me if she’d heard.”
“Does she have any other family around that we could check with?”
Amanda brushed aside a tear. “No one nearby. She’s alone up here except for Nora. Oh God.” Amanda suddenly went pale. “What am I going to tell Nora?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. First, give the police another try. Ask about the husband, and let them know you found her phone.”
Amanda looked relieved to have something specific to do and she rushed to the hall to call the police on the landline. I hadn’t lied to Amanda. Sheila could’ve been wandering around the Rest in the middle of the night looking for a misplaced phone and suddenly realized it might be in the basement. I’d certainly done that before. Losing a phone was like losing an arm. I don’t think I’d have been able to wait till the morning to check.
I walked through the kitchen and into the sitting room looking for something. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Some sign, however small, that Sheila had encountered someone, or seen something perhaps that ended with her being spirited away, but to my eyes everything looked just as it had looked yesterday. Still leaving her phone and her wallet suggested hasty departure, an unplanned departure, and, even more frightening, an involuntary departure.
I stood turning Sheila’s phone over in my hand. It was the one link we had to her that might shed some light on what was going on, but only if we could open it to see who she’d been communicating with before she vanished.
Amanda returned, looking annoyed. “Husband’s still in jail according to the police records. They said someone would be over later to take more statements. I told them again, she has a young daughter. She’s not just going to just disappear without her.”
I held up Sheila’s phone. “Do you happen to know the password?”
Amanda shook her head. “Did you try ‘Nora’?”
I entered the four numbers that corresponded to the letters. Incorrect password, the screen admonished. “Six spaces available,” I said. “What about Sheila’s birth date? That’s always a favorite.”
“Hang on.” Amanda went down the hall to her miniature office and returned with a blue file and read off “26 March 1984.”
I entered 260384 and 031984. Neither worked. “Probably only have one or two more tries,” I mused. “She may have been smart about her password, but most people’s are fairly obvious.”
“Try 210407,” Amanda offered.
I entered the numbers and the screen popped open. I smiled up at Amanda. “We have a winner. Nora’s birthday?”
“Yep.”
I handed the phone to Amanda. “I suspect she would feel better if you were going through her personal stuff, not me.”
“Where do I start?”
“Take a look at the most recent calls.”
“Nothing since yesterday afternoon. Two to Nora. One to me.”
“What about received calls?”
“Pretty much the same, Nora and me.” Amanda continued to scroll through the call list. “There are two outgoing calls to numbers not in her list of contacts. Both from yesterday morning.” Amanda turned the phone to me.
I jotted the two numbers down, then dialed the first one to see if it was an individual or a business.
I put the phone on speaker and held it out. “Southside Children’s Clinic,” a man’s voice answered.
I looked at Amanda and began to extemporize. “Yes, I wanted to reconfirm an appointment for Nora.” I waved a hand at Amanda.
“Kinkaid,” she whispered.
“For Nora Kinkaid.”
“Is she an existing patient?”
I had a fifty-fifty shot. I went with yes and waited, listening to the keyboard clicking on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry. I have no record of her as a patient.”
I hung up, disappointed, and dialed the second number. A posh female voice at the other end said, “Manchester, Link, and Dunn.”
Amanda waved her hand and made a cutting motion across her throat.
I hung up again. “You know that number?”
“That’s Urquhart’s firm. Why would Sheila be calling him?”
I had several thoughts, none of them good. Sheila reminded me a lot of myself—inclined to go off half-cocked when angry.
“I don’t know why she would call,” I said finally, “but I suspect the police can find out. Hand the phone over when they get here.”
Amanda was pacing around the kitchen now. Her nervous energy was making me anxious, too.
“Do you think Sheila called and told Urquhart off about the new building?” Amanda asked. “She was very worried about what it would mean for the Rest and especially what it would mean for Nora with school and all. I wouldn’t put it past her to grab the bull by the horns.”
Neither would I, but what could Sheila possibly have hoped to accomplish and, more to the point, what could she have said that might cause her to go missing?
* * *
—
I left Amanda with instructions to call me as soon as the police had come and gone. By now it was so far into my class, it would be more disrespectful to show up than to not go at all. I opted instead for heading to the police station to give my statement.
One of the investigating officers, Laura Reynolds, came out and led me back to her desk. At least I think there was a desk under the piles of paper and boxes of evidence. No wonder the police were so hard-pressed. She pulled out a pad and took my statement longhand. I did my best to present an accurate picture of Sheila based on our short acquaintance and I made sure to let them know that Sheila and Urquhart had been in contact just hours before she disappeared. That timing was critical, and not coincidental as far as I was concerned. The police might not see it that way, but I did.
I left the police station and swung out onto the freeway to start the drive back to Balfour. I dialed Michaelson’s cell number as soon as I cleared the initial city traffic. He picked up on the second ring.
“For God’s sake, I only just got a message back from my friend at the lab in Edinburgh. How did you know?”
“Instinct,” I replied, hardly believing my luck. “What’d you get?”
“Haven’t even had time to look at it,” Michaelson grumbled. “Let me get the damn thing opened.” I could hear rustling in the background before he picked the phone up again.
“Acco
rding to this, they found Prozac, alcohol,” Michaelson paused, “and Rohypnol in her system.”
“Date-rape drug,” I said triumphantly. I knew something was peculiar about Jenny’s visit to Ross’s house. “Which one killed her?” I demanded.
“Hard to say. Any or all of the above could do the trick.”
“But it matters. If it was the Rohypnol, then it was unlikely to be self-administered, right?” And I had strong contender for the supplier. Duncan Ross. Cheryl said Jenny was murmuring something about her last drink when she went to bed. Did Jenny suspect she’d been drugged? Did Ross think he’d found a way to make Jenny say yes, when she was trying to say no?
“The lab seldom commits with Rohypnol. The traces left behind are usually so minimal.”
“Usually?” I prompted. Michaelson should know better than to try to finesse a reporter.
There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the line, before Michaelson finally admitted, “In this case it seems there was a fairly significant amount in Jenny’s bloodstream. More than would be expected from a spiked drink. Combined with the alcohol in her system and the Prozac, it was a deadly concoction.”
“Do the police have any theories on where the Rohypnol came from?”
“Not that they are sharing with me.”
“Can they tell when the drugs were ingested?”
“The night she died,” Michaelson replied unhelpfully.
“Thanks,” I snapped. “Look, something very strange is happening at the Shepherd’s Rest. First Jenny dies under mysterious circumstances, and now another woman’s gone missing just hours after she crossed swords with one of the nastier board members.”
“Let the police handle this, Logan. Trust them. They’ll sort things out. You have a vivid and creative imagination, but not all disappearances are sinister, and not all deaths are crimes. Some are simply tragic accidents.”
Some, but not this one, I was sure of it. I hung up with Michaelson and rolled down Hope’s windows as I cleared the last of the city traffic, letting the breeze blow through as I crossed over the Forth Road Bridge. On the other side, I found myself straying from my usual route home along the motorway and wandering off into the countryside. The fresh air would help to clear my head and clarify my thoughts.
It was all well and good for Michaelson to say to let the police deal with Sheila’s disappearance, but I was sure they were barking up the wrong tree trying to connect her to Jenny’s death. I was more worried about her attempting to go toe to toe with Urquhart. He was an unpleasant man who had little respect or concern for the women at the shelter, and women in general for that matter. I was sure that he was involved, but as Michaelson would say, I needed more than instinct—I needed proof. Greer Templeton had visibly cringed when Urquhart touched her at the meeting the other night. I pulled off to the side of the road and searched Templeton Farms. According to my GPS, the estate was quite close by. Greer did say to stop by any time. No time like the present to see if she had anything solid to contribute about Urquhart.
My phone led me straight to the front gates and I made my way slowly down the rutted driveway, parking in front of the three-story Georgian house. The main structure was a classic design of the period, sand-colored brick with white-framed windows and a portico around the front door with pillars. The most striking feature was a glorious full-glass Victorian greenhouse, adjacent to the right side of the house. As I exited the car, Greer Templeton emerged from within, removing a pair of muddy gloves and brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. She approached me with a broad smile on her face, oblivious to the streak of dirt that marred the perfection of her skin.
“Abi. What a surprise. I’m so glad you stopped by.”
I searched for a hint of insincerity but couldn’t find one. “Hope this isn’t a bad time. I was passing on my way home and just thought I’d stop in.”
“You’re most welcome. I invite people all the time and they so seldom come.”
Greer’s pride shone all over her face.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, breathing in the clean air and looking across the fields that spread out on all sides of the house.
“Up for a little walking tour?” Greer invited.
I followed her around the south side of the house, where the fall plantings were emerging and being protected from the vagaries of the wind and weather by a series of canvas wind blocks. “These will be our early spring crops of spinach and onions. It used to be the kitchen garden for the house, but now we have all this.” With a sweeping gesture she presented row upon row of metal-framed plastic-encased planting structures stretching out to the tree line in the distance.
“With these adaptable greenhouses, we can grow heirloom lettuces, tomatoes, and peppers all year round. They can be heated in the winter and then opened to the sun come spring and summer. Many of these veg and greens haven’t been available in this area for years,” Greer pointed out. “But they grow so well in our soil, we’re bringing them back. The local restaurants can’t get enough of them. So much more flavorful than the usual stuff.”
“Are you certified organic?”
“We are. It took some doing with all the EU regulations and such, but it’s been so worth it. A real boost to the bottom line. Not much money in plain farming these days, but if you can do organic and you can provide some unusual crops, it really helps from a revenue standpoint.” Greer blushed. “I’ve learned that from Colin. He’s the money person, not me.”
“So you’re the green thumb, and he’s the businessman?”
“Exactly. He deals with the restaurateurs and the specialty grocers. I grow what he suggests, for the most part. I don’t care so long as I can spend my days with my fingers in the dirt.”
“What a lovely place to do it,” I said.
We continued to walk around the grounds, passing through some of the greenhouses and enjoying the rich, earthy smell of growing things even now, in the last lingering weeks of winter. Along the edge of the fields were two sheds, one painted a dark navy blue and the other out on the periphery in a dull battleship gray. “Toolsheds?” I asked.
“The far one is mainly for storing junk. We also keep the compost out there, conveniently downwind of the house, but this one is my special place,” Greer said, leading me to the door of the blue building. She grabbed a key out of a pot on the window ledge and opened the door so we could peek inside. The smell was heavenly. All around the shed herbs were hung or laid out on vented racks to dry: sage, lavender, rosemary, oregano, basil, and dill.
“I’m starting a sideline in dried herbs and sachets,” she explained. “Amanda retails the lavender sachets at Woolies. Great for keeping the bugs out of your sweaters.”
I inhaled deeply. “It smells divine. What do you do with the rest of the herbs?”
“Once they’re dried, I package most of them for sale to gourmet groceries and I have a couple of herbalists who like the chamomile and such for making medicines. If I had my choice, this would be my main line of business, but sadly it just doesn’t bring in enough.”
Greer locked up the shed and we turned back toward the house. “I noticed you have more herbs drying in the basement at the Rest.”
“I’m running out of room here, and the cellar at the shelter is perfect.”
“Then moving from the Rest isn’t a great thing for your business either?” I noted.
“No. No, it isn’t,” Greer admitted.
“And yet Colin voted with Urquhart?”
“You have to understand, Colin’s the practical sort. He knows Urquhart and he knows he’ll get his way in the end. He bows to the inevitable, mainly because he doesn’t want to get on Richard’s bad side. Richard has referred a number of restaurant clients to Colin. They give us good business.”
“But you voted against the move.”
Greer smiled and raised her palms i
n a gesture of resignation. “Our votes cancel each other out. I feel I have to go with what Mum would’ve wanted, and I know she wouldn’t have stood for Richard pushing us around. The way I look at it, our mother put up with a lot for our sake, but at the time she didn’t have the financial wherewithal to up and leave. She stuck it out for us. I want to stand up for what was important to her.”
“Would you say Colin and Richard Urquhart are friends?”
Greer shook her head. “Not really. Colin describes him as the evil necessity. Hard to live with, harder to live without, but he’s been around for as long as I can remember. He and my father were close friends.”
“Do you think he’s trying to get out from under the deal he struck with your mother by forcing the shelter to either go to court or start leasing on the open market?”
“I suspect that would be the best outcome from his perspective, but he knows we’ll have to end up taking what he offers. We can’t afford not to. Either way, he wins.” Greer put a hand up and rubbed the back of her neck. “Usually I don’t have much to do with him, but he stopped by yesterday afternoon for a ‘chat,’ as he put it.”
“What did he want?”
“What you’d expect. He sees me as the weak link in the chain and he was trying to get me to change my vote.”
“I guess I’m confused by all this,” I admitted. “Why does he need your vote? He’ll get his way at the end of sixty days anyway, unless the Templeton Trust decides to sue.”
“For some reason he’s anxious not to have to wait for sixty days. He wouldn’t say why, but after talking to him the other night, Colin thinks he’s getting some kind of bonus from the new tenants if he can shift us out by the end of the month. Money’s the only thing that matters to him, so it makes sense. Urquhart needs to get on with this deal so he’s trying to force my vote.”
“How?”
“He said it would be hard for him to recommend our products to his clients if we weren’t being supportive of his business interests.”
Died in the Wool Page 10
