The letters are clipped together and laying on the side table, and she hands them to me before she pours the coffee.
“May I read them?”
“Certainly. You can have them if you like. I have to clean things up here in any case. The winters out here are so depressing. I used to love to walk the beach in the summer with Patrick, but now it’s just depressing. I was thinking that I should just go back to California. I’m going to sell the house. Go back. Start over again. I’ve always been good at that. Starting over, I mean. Practice helps.”
I begin to open one of letters and feel self-conscious about it and slip them into my jacket instead and just say, “Thanks.”
She smiles. She asks, “Have you ever been to California?”
I tell her, “When I was a younger.”
She nods with an added animation to her features as if the very thought of California is exciting. I see a bit of Des in her then. She says, “That’s right. It’s a great place for the young. But as you get older you can appreciate it as well. I just can’t take the cold like I used to.”
Funny thing. I’ve always seen it the other way. I always liked the cold. It puts a definitive end to things at least once a year. Cleans things up a bit. Gives you a hard foundation to start over on.
But I don’t argue. “I’ve heard people say that. But maybe you can still help me a little with California in another way. Maybe she had that in common with you. She might have gone back. Is there anything you remember that might have drawn her back there?” I plunged into the next question trying to keep anything out of my voice that could be interpreted badly. “Perhaps a high school friend. An old boyfriend?”
She waved a hand at me and laughed. “God, no. She hated that place. She had a boyfriend. True. But he was not a good kid. I think he was arrested before graduation for something or another. She only went out with him I think because he had a car—and more importantly, I didn’t want her to.”
“What kind of thing was he into?”
“Drugs. He was dealing drugs right in the halls of the high school. The fool was caught on video tape. Can you imagine? But he had money and a car and that seemed to be his main attraction I think. Anyway. After he was arrested she never saw him again. She even told me that.”
The picture of Patty Moriarty from the Scituate High School yearbook came easily to mind.
“What was the boy’s name?”
“Doug. Doug something. But I don’t think that’s worth following up on. When he was arrested, she said he was a ‘jerk’. There was no mercy in her voice. I remember that very well.”
I wanted to take her word for that. I did not want to be following the trail of another Patty Moriarty.
“What about the time Maggie was in San Francisco? I understand you didn’t keep her letters, but maybe you’ve had some memories, since I was here before. Something that might be helpful.”
She was puzzled.
“Other than the letters? I really don’t dwell on things. Like I said, she hardly ever called after she left home. I don’t remember any phone calls at all, really. Except . . . like I said. On the anniversary of her father’s death . . . Maybe a few.” She stared off toward the photograph on the table in the foyer. “I used to get her bills occasionally, of course. She used my address because she was moving around so much. She told me to just throw them away because she was taking care of them herself. But then even that stopped.”
“When was that?”
“When what?”
“When did her bills stop coming?”
This caused the first look of real perplexity I had seen on Betty Arnold’s face. She frowned at me as if I was doing something unpleasant now by pursuing this line. I waited.
Finally, she said, “Well. I suppose that was after she showed up with one of her boyfriends and moved everything out of the garage at last. That must have been about four years after she graduated from law school.”
That seemed like something a little more solid to me. “Tell me about him. What did he look like?”
The frown went blank. “The boy?” She threw one hand into the air. “I can’t remember. They all looked about the same. She had a different boyfriend every time I saw her. She didn’t drive, so she was always with someone. I think I told you.”
“How many times was that, would you say? Three? Four?”
The frown came back.
“Four. Maybe five. I thought I told you. She’d show up maybe once a year with someone. After Charley died I couldn’t afford to buy her a car, so she’d never gotten her license. Besides, by then she needed every dime to pay for law school. Now and then she’d show up and dump things in the garage or pick something out to take back.”
“But the last time, she showed up and took everything with her?”
“Yes. She showed up with a truck.”
“Was it a sunny day?”
Betty Arnold shook her head. The perplexity added a tone to her voice. “What? Why do you need to know that?”
I smiled in apology. “Just a thought. If you can remember something about the day, you might remember the fellow who drove her down. Just a trick for mental reference.”
She sighed in the way someone does who is losing patience with a child.
“I really don’t. . . It was sunny. It’s always sunny in California. I could never remember what time of year it was, without looking at a calendar. It’s not like it is here.”
I kept going in my direction. “Was the fellow much taller than Des?”
The blank look returned. Then a realization. “You’re right! I do remember. I remember looking at him eye to eye. I would say he was about six feet tall. Brown hair . . . but blue eyes. Very dark blue. I remember thinking that. He looked a little like Paul Newman. You don’t see blue eyes like that very often.”
I smiled. I had just narrowed my leads to every blue-eyed fellow about forty years old in California—that is if he hadn’t moved.
“But still no name?”
She nodded then, “Yes . . . his name was Dan. Daniel. He introduced himself as Dan, but she kept calling him Daniel. Like a parent does to a child who’s naughty.”
“Affectionately?”
“Yes. Affectionately. It took them hours to load that truck. He was very pleasant the whole time. He drank up all the lemonade I had. I remember that.”
“And he didn’t say where they were going.”
“No—But she did. She did! She said she was moving up to Sonoma County. He’d brought a bottle of wine along to give to me.” She nodded with the thought. “That was a little different, I suppose. Her boyfriends usually didn’t bring gifts. I think he said his father worked at a vineyard. His father didn’t own the vineyard, unfortunately. He laughed about that. But he said his father was a vintner.” She paused and thought for a moment more. I waited, hoping the memory would enlarge a bit. But she changed directions, “I remember thinking that was quite a drive. It’s even a long haul up to there from San Francisco. I knew she had that job in the city with Shippen and Douglas. But she said it was only an hour and a half. I remember that too.”
A thought came back to me. “Bodega Bay?”
Betty Arnold looked surprised. “Yes! Bodega Bay. You’re right! How did you know?”
“Just something Des said once.”
I had to stand up with that in my brain. I think I was excited by the connection. Des had told me once that she had been ‘in hospital’ there.
Betty Arnold stood as well. “You can’t leave. I have such a nice lunch for us all fixed and ready. And there are boats at 4:00 and 6:00, you know. You could get either of them.”
I stayed for lunch.
There was more information to be had, in any case. After that day when Des came to get her things in the truck, she had not contacted her mother again for more than a year. And Betty Arnold had no memory of Des being in a hospital. “Never sick a day in her life,” was the comment. The next time she he
ard from her daughter, Des was in Texas.
On the ferry, I sat in a corner away from the vibrations of the motor and thought it all through a couple more times before Matty called.
It was one of those calls you don’t forget. Long Island Sound was as gray as the sky and left no horizon for balance to the gentle rolling of the big boat.
There was no preamble. No preparation. Matty just asked me if I had a minute to talk. Then she said, “I’m pregnant.”
I suppose I could have said a lot of things to that, but it caught me off guard. I just answered, “I thought you said you weren’t.”
She was immediately defensive, “I didn’t say that. I wasn’t sure then. I didn’t say anything.”
“You said, ‘What?’ Just like that. You acted like it was stupid for me to even ask.”
Matty huffed into the phone. “Because, it was exactly what I was thinking about when you showed up. Like you were reading my mind. Then all of sudden, there you were asking me. It was stupid for you to ask. I didn’t even know yet.”
This took the breath out of me. I’d been pretty excited over the information about Des. As a bonus, I figured I might have just escaped the best efforts of Betty Arnold to seduce me over lunch. At least that’s what I was fantasizing to keep the conversation interesting. I’m probably not her type in any case, whatever that might be. Now all I could do was pretty much sit there on a hard plastic seat feeling stupid and rather helpless in the face of everything else.
It was Matty who said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I know it’s not the way you’d want it to be. But things never are. Are they?”
I didn’t answer that. I should have. Instead I said, “Have you told your mother?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you told the boy?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Eric.”
“The Neanderthal?”
She huffed with her answer, “Yes!”
“Your mother will be thrilled.”
“I wasn’t going to tell her.”
“How does that work?”
“You can sign the consent form instead.”
That was a slap in the face. I tried to gather myself for the effort.
“You mean you want to get an abortion and not tell your mother?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I don’t think you should have an abortion. You know what I think about that. Not unless your life’s in danger. And it’s not, is it? And I’ll bet you’re plenty healthy. I’ve seen you eat recently.”
“Dad. I’m sixteen! I don’t want a baby. It’ll do me psychological harm.”
I felt the anger I was trying to hold down.
“Did the nurse say that to you?”
Another huff. “The counselor at school. I got sick in class and had to go to the nurse. She sent me to the counselor.”
The next words out of my mouth were not brilliant. Not a way to be persuasive.
“I’ll tell you what’ll do you psychological harm. It’s not just about you. There’s another life involved in this now. It’s not a matter of the way you’d want it to be anymore. It’s a matter of the way it is. Killing your own baby will do you more psychological harm—”
She hung up on me at that point. I tried to call her back, but I had to settle with leaving a message. I just said, “Please call me back. I love you.” Then I called Mary Ellen.
That conversation did not go so well either.
By that time, I was on the road again on my way back to Porter Square. There was plenty of time to think things through in the car.
At home I sat down on the bed with the intention of going to sleep. I felt beat even though it wasn’t that late. Then I saw the letters from Des in my jacket.
They were short. Not sweet. Rather cold, I thought.
Both began: ‘Dear Mother. . . . ’
The first was the most perfunctory: ‘Things have changed. I’m in Portugal. Very nice. Very cute. Maybe I’ll stay a while. I don’t know where I’ll go afterwards. But you may be getting some mail forwarded from the office in Houston. Just throw it away. Please. Thank you.’
The second was effusive by comparison: ‘I’m still here! I live in a small room above a leather shop. I’m sending you a purse I think you’ll like. I eat in a café near the University where they make toast and cut the crust off like you told me once that your own mother did. Oddly, I like it that way here. It’s like a wafer. Like some sort of pagan communion. Just one bite, and then it’s gone. It made me think about your mother and I wondered if I was like her in any other way. Just a passing thought.’
I called Betty Arnold again.
She might have already been in bed, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t asleep.
I said, “I was just wondering. In one of the letters, Des tells you about eating toast with the crust cut away and asks you if she was anything like your mother. Do you remember? Did you ever write back?”
There was a long silence. Somehow, I knew the answer before she told me. “Every bit. Just like her. Isn’t that strange. They never even knew each other. My mother died when I was still in college. I was still just a girl then myself.”
I wondered, “Anything in particular.”
“About what?”
“That made them alike.”
“Impulsive . . . smart . . . quick . . . beautiful.”
It sounded like a list that had been considered before. And it sounded exactly right, at least for Des.
“Anything else that comes to mind?”
“Bette Davis.”
“Bette Davis?”
“Yes. I think it was the ‘Bette’ part that had me watching all those old movies. I didn’t know anyone else named ‘Bette.’ And I wanted to be just like Bette Davis. But, of course, I wasn’t. I was always more like my dad. I have to think things over a dozen times before I do them. And then . . . probably the only impulsive thing I ever did in my life, got me pregnant. Charlie was such a handsome cowboy.”
There was silence. I waited. I imagined that she was crying. But then, that was probably just me. I cry at old movies.
Finally, she said, “I didn’t tell him for a month. I was going to have an abortion and not tell anybody. And then I got a call from my Aunt. My mother was dead. She was killed in a car accident. A drunken driver had hit her. And I was devastated. I was confused. And then I told Charlie. And he married me. He drove me all the way to Vegas that night and we were married at dawn. ‘It was a new day,’ he said. He was right about that. It just wasn’t the right day. It just wasn’t the way I wanted it to be.”
29. What I had
What I had was not enough.
That was the thought I had in the morning. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t concentrate. So, I did what I always do then; I reviewed my notes. These were not in order.
I had two murders, most probably committed at the same time. But no murderer.
I had one attempted murder. That was on myself.
I had one missing person—still missing after more than eight weeks—and a whole lot of possibilities there.
Detective Wise had made a passing remark yesterday. I called him to tell him about my conversation with Des’s mother. Because that was the next box to check, I had asked him about George Jefferson Adams. Adams and his wife had both been in Boston on the day Des disappeared. That couldn’t be coincidence.
Wise is funny on the phone. He starts answering before you’ve finished a sentence. That is simple impatience. But he does listen. He had heard my question.
He said, “I don’t think it is. I think it’s connected, but I haven’t figured just how yet. He seems to be cooperating. He even offered to see me this week when he comes into town. He wants this to be over.”
That was something to follow up on. It was already nine o’clock. That would make it
eight in Houston. I grabbed my phone again and called Adam’s office. I tried to imitate Fabian Lugano’s voice because it was the first one that came to mind. She might remember my own.
Adams’s secretary took her time picking up. I could imagine her taking a last bite of her morning donut.
I said, “This is sergeant Lugano in Boston. Detective Wise wants to confirm our appointment. He had a couple of other matters to take care of and he was wondering if he could move the time. Would it be possible to meet on Friday. Say, 10 am?”
I could hear her tapping the keys on her computer. In half a minute she was back.
“He’s only there today. He’ll be in New York tomorrow. He’s due here for a meeting on Friday.”
“Could we move the time today?”
“I could check. He might be free this morning. He has you at 2:00 and then he's on the train at 4:00.”
“No. No. Thanks. Let’s just leave it then for two. Thanks.”
It was easier than I expected. I broke the law without a flinch. I have no idea what the penalty is for pretending to be a police officer.
I knew where Adams was. The condominium he kept here in town was the same one where Des had been spending most off her time. But getting by the front desk was not going to be as easy. I called the concierge. The Plaza Towers condominiums was one of those places that should have a phone connection to every tenant. And I was right.
Adams picked up his phone on the first ring. I imagined him sitting there at some piece of phony French provincial furniture making his morning calls.
I went right at it. “It’s John Finn. I was wondering if we could talk.”
He didn’t skip a beat. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”
I said, “I was going to fill you in on that. I’ve been thinking about the fact that both you and your wife were in town on October 31st. I was thinking about speaking with your wife about it, but I thought I’d give you first crack.”
That gave him pause.
“When?”
“This morning.”
John Finn Page 30