“This is so good.” I held up my cone in demonstration. “How’s yours?”
Noelle was too busy battling drips to answer. Holly shrugged again.
I tried a different topic. “So how’s school, Holly? Do you like your teacher?”
I was treated to shrug number three. I tried a question she had to answer with actual words. “What’s your teacher’s name?”
This precipitated a world-weary sigh. “Mrs. English.”
“How about you, Noelle? What’s your teacher’s name?”
“Her name is Mrs. English, too,” Holly said.
“How unlikely is that?” I smiled. “Are they sisters?” I winced as I realized I’d asked another shruggable question and immediately got my comeuppance. “You don’t know?” I winced again because, let’s face it, I wasn’t catching on very quickly.
I tried once more, thinking carefully first. “So two Mrs. Englishes. Noelle, what color hair does your Mrs. English have?” I held up a finger as Holly began to answer. “This question is for Noelle.”
“Blue,” Noelle said between careful licks.
“Really?”
Noelle blinked, as if she couldn’t believe I had doubts.
“Is it blue?” I asked Holly.
She shrugged.
“Let’s talk about your mom.”
“Why?” Holly said.
Surprised, I searched her face, only to find her expression hadn’t changed. “Well, because you’re probably worried, right? I just wanted you to know that I talked to her yesterday, and she sounded fine. She’s anxious to come back as soon as she can.”
Holly took two bites of her cone before she spoke. “Gram can take care of us.”
“No, she can’t. Not right now. She’s taking care of Grandpa. That’s why I’m here.”
“Does Daddy know?”
I made an educated guess. “I don’t think your mommy wants to bother him while he’s on his submarine.”
Nothing else was forthcoming. I knew they must have questions, but if so, they weren’t going to ask me.
“Your mommy told me to take good care of you.” It wasn’t quite true, but I was sure that Wendy would have remembered if she hadn’t been in the middle of Arizona trying to escape the police. Or California. Or...somewhere.
“Can you braid my hair?” Noelle suddenly looked more interested in me. “Mommy can.”
At the moment my hair curled just past my collar, as long as it had ever been. I tried to sound optimistic. “I bet I can learn.”
Nobody seemed impressed.
We finished in silence. When their cones were a memory, both girls were as clean as they’d been before their first lick. I, on the other hand, had ice cream puddling between my fingers. I snatched more napkins inside and scrubbed my hands on the way to the car.
I wondered about groceries. Had Wendy left anything in the refrigerator that was still good to eat? One stop with my nieces had convinced me we didn’t need another. I wanted to get them home and turn them loose. I wondered what they did when they were alone with Wendy, and I hoped there were plenty of toys and art supplies. If I was lucky, they could escape to hiding places I would never find.
The town house sat in an ungated community of probably sixty like it called Tropicana. The architect had possessed the good sense not to design exact look-alikes, which cut down substantially, I was sure, on residents trying to enter strange homes after socializing at the local happy hour. Each group of six was a different earth tone, and while the footprint was the same, with garages fronting the street and living quarters behind, the setback created privacy. Tropicana’s landscaping was mature and individual, with live oaks nestled by walkways, and palms and brightly colored croton adding visual interest.
I followed my mother’s directions and parked in front of an end unit. I could see why my father had purchased this property. The community was well kept and blooming with carefully tended perennials and shrubs. The area behind the houses was wooded and undeveloped. The end unit was surprisingly private, with a wide lawn on the side ending in more woods. The town house would be in high demand as a rental, especially in the winter when snowbirds flew down from the frozen north to soak up Florida sunshine.
Since Wendy’s car was parked at the airport, her garage was probably empty. At the moment I didn’t plan to retrieve her car, even if I found an extra key, because I was still optimistic that she’d need it soon. In the driveway I got out of my Civic to punch in the garage door code my mother had given me. Undoubtedly the remote was waiting for my sister at the airport, too.
Inside the garage I began to unload my canvas bags on the passenger side. “Girls, get whatever you took to Gram’s and put it back in your room.”
I expected grumbling, but they were silent. I watched as they each took one small thing and started toward the door.
“You can carry more than that, right?” I had three bags under one arm and two under the other. I looked behind me and saw they were making faces at each other. I was encouraged. It was the most normal thing I’d ever seen them do.
I made a face, too, but not so they could see. “Each of you bring in one more thing. You’re strong. Like Wonder Woman.”
The door opened into a narrow mudroom leading into the kitchen, with a half bath tucked to one side. The kitchen was medium-size and standard issue, with a greige tile floor and plenty of white cabinets over gray laminate counters, along with a small jutting peninsula furnished with two black metal stools. A louvered door hinted at a pantry, while the farthest counter fronted on a small dining area. Beyond that a screened porch looked over a wide yard and the woods behind.
“Hey, this is nice.” The town house was more upscale than my duplex in Delray, even though mine had midnight sound effects by Harley-Davidson. I was guessing that most of the residents in this development had given up their motorcycles for golf carts.
Neither girl responded, something I was fast getting used to.
On my second trip inside, with the two girls trailing with more bags, I took a better look through the downstairs. The house looked clean enough, but cluttered. Papers were piled on counters, as well as end tables in the great room. That room itself was large and open, with a vaulted ceiling sporting dual skylights. The laminate floor was home to two sea-grass rugs dotted with sofas and chairs and a square glass coffee table, also covered with papers. I didn’t see anything that would indicate children lived here except, possibly, a large screen television with a basket of remotes beside it. I wasn’t worried. Judging from at least one of the bags they’d reluctantly brought inside, they’d taken games and stuffed animals with them to my parents’ house.
“Do you girls usually play in your room?”
Neither answered. I was catching on. In the future I would have to single out one of them by name.
“Run upstairs and put your things away,” I said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
As I watched them trudging up the staircase, I tried to dredge up Mom’s lecture on my childcare duties. I was to make sure Holly and Noelle had nutritious meals, schedules, and early bedtimes. That was easy, since it sounded like a replay of my own childhood. I wondered if multiple charts were required here, too.
In the kitchen I opened the refrigerator to see that the shelves were almost empty except for condiments, a tub of cheap margarine—hadn’t Wendy gotten the memo about the dangers of hydrogenated fat?—half a carton of eggs and most of a loaf of white sandwich bread that would probably look fresh and perky until Doomsday.
What I’d guessed was a pantry was actually the home of the stacked washer and dryer. The cupboards yielded little. I found a few basics, like sugar and salt, canned tomatoes, tuna and green beans. Wendy either cooked and planned so diligently she’d used up everything before her trip, or Wendy never cooked.
A peek inside a drawer by the stove answered that
question. A stack of menus took up the valuable real estate where spatulas and whisks should have resided. Since this wasn’t the takeout mecca of Manhattan, most of these menus featured pizza.
I leaned against the refrigerator. “I guess I know what we’re having for dinner.”
* * *
The girls only liked cheese pizza with nothing added, which was no surprise. Nor was I surprised at their lack of enthusiasm for cleaning up afterward.
Now, though, my nieces were freshly showered, dressed in frilly white nightgowns from a drawer filled with more frilly nightgowns in cotton-candy colors, and ready to be tucked into bed.
Tucking in was a mystery of sorts. I thought back to my parents’ bedtime rituals. After extensive prayers at my bedside, Mom would read a short book, or when I was older, one chapter of a longer one. The lives of saints were her favorites, complete with carefully muted details about the horrifying ways they had died. It’s not easy being saintly.
Bedtime with Dad was very different. If he happened to be home early, he always tossed me into bed and mumbled prayers at lightning speed. Then he sat on the edge and told me stories about a little girl—coincidentally named Ryan—who took spectacular journeys to faraway places on a magic carpet.
Holly and Noelle’s room was small, with beds against opposite walls. Tonight I sat on Noelle’s and scooted to the bottom, so I could see them both. I had given up bedtime prayers years ago and doubted that Wendy, an Easter-and-Christmas Christian, engaged in this ritual. But I knew I’d better ask.
“Would you like to say your prayers together? And this is a yes or no question.” I cocked my head and waited.
Holly turned away from me, answer enough. “Noelle?” I asked.
“You do it.”
An answer of any kind was a surprise. Three whole words were a miracle. Of course now I was in trouble. I cleared my throat and knew enough to keep it short.
“Let’s close our eyes.” I considered what must be troubling them the most and began. “Dear Lord, we thank You for all the blessings in our lives, and tonight we ask that You watch over us and those we love, especially Dale Gracey, who is recovering from surgery, and Wendy and Bryce Wainwright, who are far away and missing their daughters.”
I didn’t know what else to say. My problems with prayer had just surfaced. Prayers aren’t always answered the way we want them to be. These little girls were a bit young for theological explanations, so I didn’t want to promise something that might not come true. Dad’s future health was in question. Bryce was at sea in a nuclear sub, and Wendy was running from the sheriff. Keeping them all safe under those circumstances was a tough job.
I did my best. “We know that You see everything we can’t, and so we trust in Your loving care.” I ended by crossing myself and repeating the standard words. “In the name of the Father...”
Noelle was staring at me when I opened my eyes. “Will that work?”
Holly turned over. “Noelle, be quiet.”
I ignored Holly and remembered how a nun from my childhood had answered every question we ever put to her. “We can only ask. The rest is up to God.”
“We want to go to sleep,” Holly said.
The girls were talking to me. It wasn’t a prize-winning conversation, or even a friendly one, but they were proving they had a vocabulary.
“I could read you a story. Or tell you one. Would you like that?”
As if they’d choreographed their movements, both girls turned on their sides. I took that as a no and wished them good-night, but I didn’t kiss them. I wasn’t sure it was safe.
I turned off the light and immediately a night-light by the door, a fairy with gossamer wings, clicked on to keep them company. It was no alligator, but it would do.
When I’d come upstairs to carry my own things into Wendy’s bedroom, I had discovered the play area. At the head of the stairs, a wide loft bordered the bedrooms and the girls’ bathroom. Shelves with colored cloth bins lined one wall, and games and toys peeked out of several. A tall dollhouse with furniture—and grinning fifties-era white people—occupied one corner. A child-size table adorned the other, and a small bookshelf with maybe a dozen children’s books stood outside the bathroom. Everything seemed to be exactly where it should be.
Since I hadn’t found another set of sheets in the linen closet, I stopped by the master bedroom and stripped off the ones on Wendy’s bed. The master bedroom was larger than the one that the girls shared, and unlike the downstairs, orderly, except for a corner desk piled with more papers.
As the sheets washed, I did a final check to be sure everything was locked up for the night. The house was in good condition, but it needed minor maintenance. A light switch cover hung from one screw. Several bulbs were burned out in the great room ceiling. Hinges on one kitchen cabinet needed to be adjusted. And when I got to the front door, I noticed it didn’t close properly. I shoved it hard with my hip and held it in place, but even then, neither the knob lock or the dead bolt would turn. Someone had rigged up a cheap hook latch instead, but one good kick to the door would unseat it.
Tropicana was surrounded by other middle range developments, and most likely the local crime rate was low. Still, snowbirds hadn’t begun to return, and many neighboring houses would be empty until after Christmas. I was surprised Wendy was so relaxed about security.
As a child, I had loved being Dad’s assistant when repairs were needed. Consequently, I wasn’t too bad at simple carpentry and plumbing. I’d noticed a toolbox in the garage, so now I went to find a screwdriver.
Fifteen minutes later I made a note to call my mother about a new knob and dead bolt, because these were beyond redemption. Gracey Group probably had a list of service providers. I wedged a chair under the doorknob, turned on the security alarm and went back to the garage to finish emptying the car and retrieve my laptop.
The girls had taken up my time, but not my thoughts. All afternoon I’d made mental notes about finding my sister. Sophie was looking, and she could find almost anything. At the same time I had to check for myself, in case something unusual jumped out at me.
I logged on and did a quick search of general news sites for crimes in Arizona. Then I searched for the names of all the major newspapers in the state and methodically visited those that had websites I could access. Two hours later I hadn’t found anything promising.
Because of our age difference, Wendy and I had never shared friends, so there was no one I could call to question. Besides, I doubted my sister was calling old pals and giving away her location. The same with our few living relatives, who were all as distant on the family tree as they were in miles.
I started a file for a list of things I could do next. Searching the town house was a long shot, since whatever had happened, wherever it had happened, probably had nothing to do with anything Wendy had left behind. Still, a search had to be made. I was sure I wouldn’t find my sister’s laptop, because she traveled with it, but I could look through the stacks of papers littering the downstairs and Wendy’s desk, even though a quick shuffle had turned up nothing more than household bills, high-end fashion catalogs and Gracey Group memos. Again I suspected anything relevant—if such a thing existed—was in Wendy’s possession.
Six items later I called Sophie. She answered immediately.
We were used to dispensing with preliminaries. “Any luck?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nada. Is it possible that the body hasn’t been found yet?”
This was the type of conversation we often had, only usually, we had it about murders that were committed years ago.
“Anything’s possible,” I said. “She told me so little.”
“I searched for missing persons, too, but you know how that goes. Maybe whoever it is hasn’t been reported missing. Or they have been, but the authorities are waiting some number of days or hours before they fill out a report. Can you ask you
r mother for more information about your sister’s trip?”
“I’m going to try.”
“You know, you’re going to have to tell her something more concrete soon. If Wendy really is a murder suspect, the sheriff or the police, whoever has jurisdiction where it was committed, may well be calling your parents.”
I got up and walked to the door looking over the porch, and stared into the night. “I can’t imagine what I’ll say.”
“Yeah, me either. I’ll give it some thought.”
“Maybe we’d better widen the search to the whole state. And then move over to California. That’s where Mom thought Wendy was, unless she’s just so rattled she doesn’t know one state from the other.”
“How easily does she rattle?”
“How often does she almost lose her husband and then her daughter?”
“I’ll widen.”
We hung up. I moved the sheets into the dryer and hoped that soon, Wendy would be standing in the kitchen washing and drying them all over again so she could move back into her bedroom.
I remembered my prayer. I hoped somebody upstairs had been listening.
CHAPTER FIVE
The girls’ school was only two blocks from the town house. My mother had jotted instructions and directions, covering everything I needed to get them to their classes by eight-thirty the next morning.
Despite that, my cell phone jolted me awake at seven. Mom wanted to be sure the girls were up, that I had picked out their clothes and helped them dress. The list went on. Was I cooking a healthy breakfast—with what Wendy had in her kitchen?—and had I made lunches—same question. I should make sure their homework was still in their backpacks. Once they were safely in school, I was to stop by the office to sign papers making me the official contact while Wendy was away. Mom would call to assure the school I was legit.
A Family of Strangers Page 4