by Kate Flora
I paused to take a little of my medicine and Andre did the same. "Go on."
"I thought using those heaters had to be deliberate. I struck out with fire so I wondered, if not fire than what? Heat?"
I waved my hands at the papers. "That's where I was when you called. So far, I've got nothing. But you're close to finding him, right?" I thought about Ginger's pictures. A man and a woman. "Or them? Ginger's killers?"
"Not yet."
My spirits sank. I'd been so sure that with the information from Stafford, plus Ginger's photos and that partial license, he'd find them. Arrest them. Lock them up. And I could sleep peacefully again.
"So what was your next search going to be?" my husband the bloodhound asked.
I gave up on our floor picnic and the promise of that kiss and joined him at the table, taking my glass with me. I let the hot, sweet bourbon roll over my tongue as I looked at my notes. Normally I loved bourbon. Tonight I didn't feel much like drinking. I was too tired.
"Hot cars and Babette. Then hot cars and Babette and Penny."
"Why would you leave Penny out?" he said.
"If she was a juvenile, they wouldn't have printed her name. Would they?" I didn't know what kind of assumptions detectives made when they did searches like this. "Did you find out anything about her from Stafford Academy?"
He shook his head. "Athlete. Good student. Her parents' names and address. She withdrew after her junior year. They moved and we haven't been able to trace them yet." He gestured toward the computer. "Go ahead and try your search."
I shifted my gaze from my notes to his face. Was he serious?
"Why not?" he said. "I don't care how we catch the killer."
"You got mad about the package," I reminded him. "I thought you didn't want me involved."
"I said I was sorry. And you are involved."
He looked sorry. He'd brought me presents. And we both wanted Ginger's killer caught.
I sat down at the computer. Andre pulled a chair up beside me. I tried hot cars and Babette in a couple different iterations in the archives of Maine newspapers and BINGO! Hours after I started a desultory search, pretending to be a detective to pass the time until Andre came home, and late at night when we both should have been sleeping, I uncovered Ginger's ugly secret.
Andre read over my shoulder as the lurid headlines in the Maine papers declared:
Sitter Leaves Toddler in Hot Car to Tryst with Boyfriend
Hot Car Toddler in Critical Condition
Reckless Sitter Charged with Child Endangerment
Hot Car Toddler May Be Permanently Impaired
Babette Ingram was the hot car toddler. The parents were at their child's bedside and refusing to give interviews. The careless babysitter wasn't identified because she was a juvenile, but one paper had slipped up, perhaps deliberately, and published her first name. Published it in a virulent interview with Babette's older brother, Jordan Ingram, age nineteen. In that interview, he had promised that if his little sister didn't make a full recovery, he would see that Penny suffered just as Babi had suffered. His sister, Mary Ingram, had declined to comment. The papers reported that Mary Ingram and the babysitter had been close friends and attended the same private school in Connecticut.
The babysitter had been caring for little Babi that day because the rest of the family had to attend a funeral. In the middle of the afternoon, she had left Babi in the car because the little girl was asleep, and spent her boyfriend's break time with him outside the local ice cream shop. The temperature that day had been in the nineties. When she got back to the car, the toddler was unconscious. The babysitter had opened the windows, turned on the air-conditioning, and raced to the hospital emergency room. The toddler was revived but was critical and had suffered potential brain and kidney damage. The news stories all reiterated the risks of leaving children in hot cars.
One article stated that despite the babysitter's statements, which were corroborated by her boyfriend and the boyfriend's boss, police did not believe the toddler had been unattended for less than twenty minutes. Penny Martin—always referred to as "the juvenile"—had been arrested, bailed, and was in seclusion. Without the sensation of a trial—the "juvenile" had agreed to a plea deal—the story quickly died away. I could find no follow up articles about what became of little Babi.
I stared at my screen and then down at my notes.
"I thought Ginger said 'airy,'" I told Andre. "She probably said 'Mary.' Oh God. Mary. She was trying to tell me she'd recognized her killers."
I thought of all she'd tried to put into those few painful words. Mary. The connection to Babette. That she'd thought she was safe. That she was still sorry for what had happened. I tried to imagine two people so consumed by hate and a desire for vengeance they'd carried it all these years and planned something so horrible. Done something so horrible.
I'd loved my little sister, Carrie, and wanted her killer caught and punished, but I couldn't imagine myself doing something like this.
"So there were two of them," Andre said. "The two people in those pictures. The man and the woman. Jordan and Mary Ingram," he said. "At some point, she must have spotted them and taken those pictures."
"And wrote Jordi on the back. Because even though Ginger had changed her name and colored her hair, and was fifteen years older, she'd made the mistake of coming back to Maine, and continuing to work as a realtor, where her picture would be everywhere. Safe. She thought she was safe. She'd suffered for fifteen years from a momentary mistake. Maybe she was homesick? She did say she'd hated Florida."
Had she been stupid? Or hopeful? Had her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—played any part in this? Was that what his comment about her not being perfect had been about? If her story in Florida was true, maybe she'd loved him enough to follow him to Maine? Had she also foolishly trusted him enough to confide in him and been betrayed?
My head was spinning from unanswered questions. I was trying not to imagine Ginger's horror, the moments of realization of who her killers were and what they intended—the slow, awful way they arranged for her to die or at least suffer horrible damage. The call they'd made so I'd be delayed. Ginger had sat in that room in slowly increasing agony for more than an hour, hoping for rescue. And I didn't come.
Had they stayed and watched? Waited until she was writhing with pain? Had they watched the horror and desperation in her eyes? Maybe even taken pleasure from it? Ginger—Penelope—had been a kid who made a bad mistake. And I believed it had only been that ten or fifteen minutes. I'd done a little reading on heatstroke. Little children were so vulnerable and the temperature in a car could go up many degrees in only minutes.
The Ingrams had been adults. Methodical, vengeful adults who had done something unspeakably horrible to another human being.
Seeing my face, he said, "You're thinking about Carrie."
"I am. But mostly I was thinking about how tragic it all is. As a teenager, she makes a poor decision and puts a child at risk. She served her time, changed her name, and lived a circumscribed life ever after. But something about Maine—or a romantic miscalculation—drew her back, and coming back got her killed. Despite changing her identity, she made the mistake of working in a profession where her photograph was everywhere. Maybe she thought she was so changed no one would recognize her. But it looks like the Ingrams never got over the incident. Someone, Mary or Jordan Ingram, or someone they knew, must have seen her picture and made the connection. And they planned their horrible revenge."
Revenge, Shakespeare has written, is a dish best served cold. In this case, more than a decade cold. Clearly, though, the desire for revenge still burned red hot.
Chapter 32
"The truck you saw driving away," Andre said. "Did you notice anything about the occupants?"
I thought back to that morning. The dark truck charging at me, well over the line in my lane. Roland had asked if I remembered anything about the truck. I'd been trying to rescue my spilled coffee and dealing with an anxious c
lient. But if I thought really hard, was there anything I could remember? Was this another case where the remembering game we played could be a real world help? What had I told Roland? Dark truck, double cab.
I thought that was all I remembered. Now, I closed my eyes and put myself back in that moment. I pictured it. The glass was heavily tinted, but I thought there had been two people in the truck. A woman driving. A man in the passenger seat. There had been a quick moment, in the midst of my swearing and damage control, when I'd registered surprise at a woman driving a truck so fast and so carelessly.
"The truck I saw that morning? There were two people in it, a man and a woman. Do you think it might have been them?"
I tried to recall Ginger's blurry photo, wondering if it was of a truck, but I couldn't. Minutes ago, I'd been looking forward to a quiet evening with my husband, drinking and eating and tumbling into bed. Now I wanted him to strap on his armor and go do battle with the forces of evil.
"Do you think you can find them?"
"I'll call Roland, tell him what we know—or think we know—and see what he can find out."
"Roland's still at work? He must be exhausted."
"Roland is as tenacious as a pitbull. You know that." A smile. "I'd be there, too, if he hadn't made me come home." He studied my face. "What? You're disappointed I wanted to spend some time with you?"
I wasn't disappointed. I was conflicted. I wanted the killers caught as soon as possible. I also didn't want Andre to leave me. I wanted him strapping on that armor and going forth to do battle, and I wanted him no more than a hair's breadth away.
He kissed me. Another one of those kisses with promise. "Relax. I'm not going to rush out into the night when I've been drinking. I'm going to make a couple phone calls. Get people working on some things."
He touched my cheek, his hand warm and reassuring. "Don't worry. We'll get them. I'm not the only competent detective with the Maine state police. After I make those calls?"
He did his signature eyebrow waggle and leered at me. "I'm going to personally inspect all your injuries. I'm going to kiss all your boo boos, and I'm..."
"Shut up," I interrupted, "and make those calls."
I'd flipped my mental coin and come down on the side of here and now. Keeping him here and now. Tomorrow, when I was back to sorting out errant schools and solving their problems, he could go catch bad guys.
As he made his calls, I basked in pleasure that together Andre and I had done some good detective work, hadn't had a fight, and maybe had taken a big step toward justice for Ginger.
Tonight the monsters would stay in the closet and there would be no bad guys in the basement. I went to take some painkillers for my throbbing arm. I could barely keep my eyes open. It was time for sleep. In my big soft bed. With Andre.
* * *
Somehow, the powers that be must have gotten the message that we needed a good night's sleep, because the phone didn't ring and no bad guys came to call. It was such a good night's sleep that I forgot to set my alarm and Andre forgot to set his. The only reason we finally woke, when it was almost nine, was because someone was knocking on our door.
I struggled into my robe and went to answer it, because Andre doesn't have a robe, and while he may be magnificent in—or out—of his skivvies, that's a pleasure I reserve for myself. I found Mrs. Ames on the doorstep holding a plate of muffins so fresh from the oven they were still steaming.
"Raspberry walnut and blueberry lemon," she said, holding out the plate. It hadn't taken much detective work on her part to figure out that we were still home. All she had to do was look out the window. Despite the bandage on her head, she looked good. Like folks said, she was a tough old bird. "A little thank you for rescuing me the other night. I hope you're doing okay?" She peered at me as though she could see damage through the robe.
"I'm fine, thanks. Especially knowing that thug is behind bars."
"Thanks to you. Next time, I'm calling the furnace man," she said. "Let him deal with whatever is down there."
"Me, too," I agreed. "I'm glad to see you looking so well."
"Oh, you know. I'm a tough old bird." She said it with a twinkle in her eye. It was almost as if she enjoyed having been attacked in her basement. It gave her something interesting to talk about. Our comings and goings weren't much fodder for gossip.
"I'll be off now. I'm sure you two have to be getting to work."
Oh, she had that right. We two were already very late for work. I had a call in ten minutes and heaven only knew what awaited Andre. I hoped it would be arrests and interrogations. I set the plate on the counter, wincing at the detritus from last night's feast still covering the coffee table, and went into the bedroom to be sure he was awake. The bed was empty. I could hear the shower running and he was singing something cheerful, loudly and way off the tune. He has many gifts, but singing isn't among them.
My arm was throbbing and my whole body reminded me that I'd recently leapt over a desk and crashed to the floor. I expected I was more black and blue than flesh-colored at this point. I dressed without looking. Whatever life threw at me today, it couldn't be as bad as yesterday.
In record time, my hubby was shaved and clothed and ready to rock and roll. Unless it was lock and load. He gave me a kiss full of promise, snagged a muffin, and headed for the door, already on the phone with Roland.
"Go catch bad guys," I said, "and call me when you've got 'em." A comment as light as a feather. Did he know how much I meant it?
He lowered the phone and said, "I will. And I will." And he was gone, leaving the faint scent of freshly showered man in the air. I missed him before the door had finished closing. The minute he wasn't there to hold it at bay, I felt an unshakable unease, as though last night, while I was doing my search on the bad guys, they were doing their own search on me. They did have my name and number, after all. Probably knew where I lived and worked. I hadn't 'til this moment thought about Ginger's files, where all kinds of client information was kept. Had she had them with her? Had her killers taken them or were they securely in a locked office or with the police?
Suddenly, my position seemed very vulnerable. I was the one who'd heard Ginger's words. The one Ginger had trusted enough to send things to. And I had seen them—if it had been them in the truck—leaving the scene. I was pretty much the only witness. And the story had been all over the papers.
I shivered.
I'd planned to do my call with Stafford from home this morning. Instead, I decided to do it from the office where there would be other people around. I made a quick call to Charlotte Ainsley, saying there had been a complication and I'd call her again in fifteen minutes. Then I did a hasty toilette—I didn't much care how I looked, especially if I wasn't meeting with clients today. Black jeans and a sweater were fine for the office. I grabbed my briefcase and purse and headed for my car. Have briefcase, will travel. Maybe I needed a steel-lined briefcase, one that would make a better shield. Did they even make such a thing?
I'd toyed with the notion before—what about chic designer wear for people in semi-dangerous professions? Silk, cashmere, and metallic thread flack vests? Statement necklaces that kept bad guys from compressing the neck? Steel-toed stilettos? Perfume atomizers containing pepper spray? That last one probably already existed.
I sighed. I didn't want to be someone who needed weapons to do her job, never mind needing a bodyguard in order to buy a house. I shifted my thoughts to my upcoming conversation with Charlotte Ainsley. Damage control of a type I understood.
I was just out the door when Mrs. Ames appeared, still shoving her arms into her coat sleeves. There was an eagerness on her face I'd rarely seen. "I forgot to ask," she said, "when I delivered them muffins. You know someone who drives a big green Ford truck? There was one hanging around here yesterday. Drove past a couple times and then turned into the driveway one time. No one got out or anything, and I couldn't make out much about the driver. It just seemed kind of odd, you know?"
More than od
d. "You didn't happen to get a license, did you?"
"They was too fast for me," she said. "I only got a partial." She said partial like she'd watched a lot of TV cop shows. "Hold on a minute, I'll get it for you, maybe your husband can figure out who it was. After the other night, I'm not keen on people snooping around here, if you know what I mean."
I knew exactly what she meant. I wasn't partial, either. Or keen.
She came back with a scrap of paper torn from a yellow pad. "There was two people in it, but that's all I can say. I don't know of anybody who'd be interested in doing me no harm, but you never can tell. I've got Lester's guns here, still, and people are always looking to steal guns. So just to be on the safe side, I've got one of 'em loaded and right here by the door."
She grabbed my arm—luckily the uninjured one—and practically hauled me into her entry. "See!"
Leaning against the wall was a shotgun. For a moment, I wanted one, too. But I'd had enough encounters with guns and their aftermath. I didn't want to make them a routine part of my life.
"Bet they wouldn't come back if they knew about this," I said.
"Oh. They do know. I waved it at 'em when I saw 'em turning in yesterday, after all them times they drove past. This is why I only got that partial, you see, because my hands were kind of busy."
"You didn't happen to call the police, did you?"
She shook her head. "Wouldn't know what to tell 'em. That some guy kept driving past in a truck? They'd just take me for a crazy old lady. I get enough of that already, being solitary and opinionated and all. I just mentioned it to your husband when he come home last night. Forgot to give him that license plate, though. He was pretty hot to get upstairs with them flowers."
I thought it was a good thing Mrs. Ames had a gun, but I didn't know whether she was adept with firearms or was likely to blow her foot off or put a hole through the ceiling.