by Elaine Macko
“We weren’t in any danger. We weren’t even trying to catch anyone,” Sam explained. “More like testing out a theory. Besides, Millie came up with the idea.”
“Samantha! How dare you blame Millie,” I chided my sister.
Sam pouted. “She got us all worked up with all that talk about drugs. I guess we should have been looking for diamonds.”
I closed my eyes and hung my head. “Jesus.”
Mom came to the table and took a seat. “I haven’t mentioned your little foray into felonious follies to your father.” After a moment’s hesitation intended to make me sweat, she added, “I don’t think I will.”
Foray into felonious follies? My mother did love her words. I guess that’s why she always won at Scrabble.
“Let the police do their work. I don’t want you girls mixed up with killers and diamond smugglers. I think you should stay away from Poupée until this whole thing is resolved. Dolly knew you wanted to help, but she had no idea to what extent.”
“You don’t have to worry about it anymore, Mom. I think the police will be making an arrest very shortly…if they haven’t already.” I smiled while visions of Jerry Gagliano being handcuffed danced in my head.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As the snow started to fall again, we women retreated to the kitchen to clean up after a huge dinner that always rendered the men useless.
“Why is it that we do all the cooking and cleaning?” Samantha asked.
“Because we do it better and quicker. If we left it to the men, number one, they would still be in here tomorrow morning, and number two, we would never be able to find a thing in the refrigerator. I’m not even sure the leftovers would make it that far. It would be more in your father’s style to throw everything out. ‘Less to do,’ he would say,” Mom sighed as she wrapped yet another plate piled high with turkey.
“I guess. But it doesn’t seem fair.”
“There. Finished. Now if you girls don’t mind, I’m going to go and put my feet up.” Mom untied her apron and hung it in the pantry.
I decided a nap might be just what I needed and went in search of a comfortable spot.
“Harry, it’s going to revolutionize the dentistry profession. A root canal with absolutely no pain,” Michael said from the den, and I thought better of going in there. Once my brother-in-law got started on the newest technology in his field, he could go on forever. Bloody gauze and spit sinks would be the next topics.
Not wanting to go up to my room, I returned to the kitchen.
“Can an Eskimo be a vegetarian?”
“What?” I looked at my sister with total bewilderment, not for the first time in our lives.
“I said, can an Eskimo be a vegetarian? I thought they lived on seal blubber and stuff.”
“I haven’t a clue. Why are you asking such a thing?” I walked over and placed a hand on Samantha’s forehead just in case she had something contagious.
“No reason. I’m just looking at this geography book Santa brought Kendall and well, Alaska looks awfully...white, don’t you think?” She pointed to a picture of the state.
“I hope you never volunteer your services over at the grammar school when they’re studying the fifty states.”
“I’m not going to let this Eskimo thing go until I find out.”
Henry walked into the kitchen “Where do we live?” he asked, looking at the book and taking a chair between us.
I pulled the book over and started to flip past the various states. I stopped when I came to California.
“This isn’t Connecticut,” Henry said.
“I know. I’m just looking. I’d like to go to San Francisco.”
“We stopped off there and spent a few days on our way to Hawaii,” Sam said. “I liked going over the Golden Gate and looking out to the Pacific. I know we have the Atlantic right at our doorstep, but it looks different. It took my breath away to be there. I think I could live there except for all the brush fires, earthquakes, floods, and people.”
Henry tried to turn the page, but I pushed his little hand away gently. “Wait a second, Honey.” I bent my head closer to the book.
“What are you looking at?” Sam asked, popping another cookie into her mouth. “What am I doing? I’m not going to have any room for pie. Henry, put these cookies over there on the counter.” Sam handed her son the plate but not before she grabbed one more.
I sat back. “Do you know there’s a Redding in Northern California?”
“So?”
“Mrs. Scott came from Northern California.”
Sam threw up her hands and repeated her question.
“It’s just that I think someone over at Poupée comes from Redding, Connecticut.”
“Well, lots of states have cities named the same. Take Springfield for example. I think every state has one. And there’s even a Manhattan in Kansas, maybe it’s Missouri. I think you should change into the red pant suit Mom and Dad gave you.”
“Why should I change…and stop eating? I can’t believe you have any room left inside.”
“Isn’t John coming over?”
“Yes, he is. What I’m wearing is just fine. Though my new pantsuit is gorgeous.”
“I helped Mom pick it out,” Sam said proudly.
“I’m almost positive someone at Poupée is from Redding.”
“Well, so what? What does that have to do with anything?”
I stood up and walked over to the sink. I stood there looking out the window for several minutes. “There’s something there.” I shook my head. “I think we’ve been missing something.”
“Alex, give it a rest. It’s Christmas. Leave it up to the police. You heard Mom. We could have been hurt. Or arrested for breaking and entering. Though the sight of you with Christmas tree bits springing from between your legs was worth a night in the pokey.” Sam laughed.
“Mommmmmmmmm!”
“That’s Kendall.” Sam got up and left the kitchen.
“Aunt Alex, you never showed me where we live.”
I sat back down and turned to the pages for Connecticut. I found Indian Cove and put my finger on it, totally obscuring it from view.
“She doesn’t even talk like the rest of us,” I said, pronouncing it “tawk.”
“Who doesn’t talk like us?”
“No one, Honey. Look, I forgot to give my friend her Christmas present. I’m going to run over there right now and I’ll be back before anyone notices I’m gone so don’t say anything.” I took the phone book from under the counter and flipped through the pages. Everything fell into place. Could it be MS?
“Where are you going?”
I pulled on my jacket. “To my friend’s. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What’s her name?”
“Monica Scott.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I found the address in an older section of Indian Cove. I turned left onto the street and started to search for number 104. Number 104 belonged to a large house toward the end of the block, surrounded by a tall hedge with several large maples in front. I parked my car and walked over to the house thinking for a minute I’d made a terrible mistake. The huge house looked vacant. I assumed Monica lived with her parents and they had gone away for the holidays.
There were two mailboxes by the driveway. I went to check for the names. Nothing. But one box said 104 and the other, 104B indicating another house in the back. On the other side of the driveway a path led to the back of the property. Up and down the block, dark houses bordered this one but a party going on down at the corner seemed to be in full swing. The path curved behind the large main house.
A light glowed from one of the windows above the garage and, hesitating, I wondered how to handle this. My parents—not to mention John—were going to kill me. Our relationship would be over before it started, but I’d come this far; a few more questions couldn’t hurt. I climbed the outdoor staircase on the side of the garage, slipping a few times on the ice. Music came from inside. I knocked
on the door as hard as I could. A few seconds later the music abruptly stopped. The door opened.
Monica stood there staring for a long moment not recognizing me. She had on dirty sweats and looked like she might be high on something.
“Monica, its Alex Harris from Poupée. Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas. I know it sounds strange but I just had a thought and I wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
Monica stepped back and I entered, hitting a cast iron doorstop with the tip of my boot. The lamp on top of a table by the door shone, but other than that, the apartment was dark. No Christmas tree and no presents brightened the space. The room looked neat and clean but very plain. On the far wall cinder blocks and wood planks formed a set of shelves, and I suddenly had an image of my first apartment. A partially opened door in the back seemed to lead to a bedroom. To the right I spied a small kitchen with packaging from a frozen dinner on a table.
I stepped further into the room. Monica shut the door behind me. Then I heard something more—a click? On the cinder block shelves rested a picture of a very solemn looking child and two elderly, stern people. I stared at the picture and everything fell into place. All the puzzle pieces fit. A sound behind me made me jump and I turned to see Monica about a foot away. Monica, with the same eyes as Irwin Scott.
“You’re not from Redding, Connecticut, are you?”
“I never said I was.”
“That’s true. Those two people in that picture...” I pointed at the photo. “They’re your grandparents, aren’t they? Your mother’s parents.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother, where is she?”
“Dead.”
I looked into a face the same round shape of Irwin Scott but which held none of the warmth. Her eyes were cold and bitter, and something more—maniacal. But the eyes were almost exactly like Irwin’s. Why hadn’t Mrs. Scott noticed? Then I remembered something Ian Reiser had said—Monica had green eyes.
“Mrs. Scott was your stepmother and before she died you wore green contacts to change your eyes.”
Monica paused for a moment. “Stepmother? You’re certainly being kind to a woman who ruined my life. Ruined my family. Yes, I wore contacts,” she said with curiosity.
“You killed her, didn’t you?” The words came out before I could pull them back. I should have just excused myself and gone quickly down the steps, jumped in my car and locked it. But no, I had to ask.
“Yes.” Monica moved away from me and I saw my chance to go for the door but something kept me glued to the floor. “Yes, I killed her. I waited my whole life to kill her. Your precious Mrs. Scott. A bitch, you know, a whore.” Monica said the words so calmly I thought for a moment maybe I hadn’t just heard what I thought.
“You’ve been to her house.”
“Yes, I’ve been watching her. Waiting.”
“Waiting?” I asked. “For what?”
“The right time.”
The words sent a chill down my back. Even with my coat and gloves on, the cold spread through my body.
“Do you know, do you have any idea the kind of hell I lived through with them?” Monica asked reaching for the picture of her grandparents. She stared at it for a moment and suddenly threw it across the room, making me jump back.
“You gave Mrs. Scott the computer printout. She never asked for it.”
“Yep, that’s right, I did. You’re good at this, Alex. I noticed something odd when I entered all the data into the new system. I didn’t know what it meant.” She shrugged. “But I had a hunch someone was up to no good. I’ve been inputting data for a long time. You get a feeling when the figures don’t add up.”
“You suspected Emmanuelle?”
Monica shook her head. “No. Not really. I figured it was that weasel, Sheridan, what with all his trips to Europe. But I knew Elvira didn’t like Emmanuelle. Everyone knew. Though the figures belonged to a client of Richard’s and that worked. I didn’t care who got blamed. The police could sort that out.”
“So you put the printout in Mrs. Scott’s purse hoping to implicate Emmanuelle or Richard.”
“No. I didn’t need to. Elvira had them in her purse. It took you long enough to figure out the figures weren’t right. I tried to think of some other way that the finger could be pointed at Emmanuelle or Richard. Or both. But then you put two and two together.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard you talking with Oliver Absher. I saw him arrive so I just casually wandered into Elvira’s office and listened to you in Mr. Poupée’s office.”
“Monica, why did you blame Mrs. Scott for your parent’s breakup? From what I know, your mother and father had many problems.” I let the explanation stop there. I didn’t wish to accuse the mother of being crazy when the daughter obviously inherited the same condition.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Monica’s eerie calmness belied the rage flashing in her eyes. She moved toward me and I reached back searching with my hands for something I could use in defense.
Monica’s face came within inches of mine. I could smell the girl’s stale breath. She suddenly backed away.
“My wonderful father left me for his tramp. Just walked out and left me. I never heard from him again.” She started pacing around the room, every now and again looking at me. Her dark copper hair hung in greasy strands around her face and she kept on pushing it over her ears. “He just packed up and left. Left me to them!” She spat the word out and kicked the picture on the floor sending pieces of glass flying.
“What about your mother?”
“My mother?” Monica’s voice lowered again and she spun to face me. “My mother slit her throat one day. I came home and found her lying in a sticky pool of her own blood. I was seven years old. My mother.” She made it sound like a four-letter word. “My poor, pathetic, sick mother. After my father left, she couldn’t take it any more. My grandparents took us in and kept telling me it would be all right.” Monica’s voice rose again and with it the pacing grew more frantic. “As if they could possibly know anything. They only cared about their precious fucking image! Finally, we left, my mother and I, and went to live in a tiny house my grandfather bought.”
She walked around the small room, kicking things in her path. I wondered if I could make it out the front door before Monica could grab me. She circled the sofa and plopped herself onto the cushions. She put her head in her hands and I saw my chance.
“Where are you going?” Monica jumped up and blocked the path to the door.
“I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to be alone,” I said softly.
“Alone. Alone! I’ve been alone my whole fucking life! That bitch, she came into my father’s life and just took him. My mother told me all about it. How she seduced my father and told him we were no good. He didn’t want to go, but she made him, she forced him!” Spittle flew from Monica’s mouth landing on my coat.
I wondered if I could possibly reason with the girl. I didn’t see any other escape route so gave it a try. “Monica, I think your mother had a lot of problems. I think your father tried to help her.”
To my astonishment, it seemed to work. Monica backed off and went back to sit on the sofa. She wiped the saliva from her face on the back of her sleeve and pushed the hair over her ears again.
“I know your father tried to contact you. He wrote you letters and....”
She hopped off the couch again, inches from me, shouting in my face. “How do you know that? Did she tell you? Did Elvira tell you? What kind of a name is that anyway?”
I just about had my fill of these mood swings. “No, Elvira didn’t tell me.”
“No, she couldn’t. Because I killed her. I really wanted to kill her on Christmas but she finally figured out who I was. Took her long enough.”
Monica started to laugh and turned away. The laughing continued for a few seconds and then abruptly stopped.
I realized for the first time the g
irl really was insane. With this realization, I knew I had to get out of there and fast. “I really need to go. My family must be worried about me by now. I told them I would just be a few minutes.” I gave a little laugh and took a step toward the door.
“At least you have a family!”
“Monica, why don’t you get your coat and we can go talk to Detective Van der Burg. I’m sure he would understand. He’ll find some people who can help you.”
“I don’t need any help.” She looked baffled. “Do I look like I need help?”
“No. No. I just thought...I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” I moved again thinking this time I would make it.
“I said you’re not going anywhere!” Monica stood next to me.
I realized my only hope was to replace my fear with anger. I shoved Monica in the chest. The young woman tumbled back. I grabbed for the door confirming my worst fear—she had locked it. I fumbled with the latch but I still wore my gloves. Monica got back up and tried to grab my hair. For the first time in my life I thanked my lucky stars for short, fine hair.
Instead, Monica snatched at my coat.
“Let me go!” I kicked her.
“I can’t let you leave. You’ll go tell everyone I’m crazy.” She started to chant. “Monica is crazy, Monica is crazy.”
“Stop it! I won’t say anything. Just let me go!” I managed to turn around and pushed her again with all the strength I could muster, all the while pulling off my gloves. There! They were off. I fiddled with the latch again, this time managing to get it undone.
I yanked the door open and glanced back to where Monica had been lying on the floor, but she was gone.
I saw the raised hand holding the doorstop a split second before it crashed down on my shoulder. I slumped to the floor grabbing my arm and screaming out in pain.
“I said you’re not leaving!”
“Someone! Please! Anyone. Help me!” I yelled.
I rolled on my butt and managed to kick the advancing Monica with both feet. She fell backward, hitting her head on the wooden corner of the sofa arm. It made a loud thud and I hoped it hurt like hell. With any luck, it knocked her out. I had to get out of there before Monica came to. The girl already killed once and no doubt had grown accustomed to this particular method of working out her problems.