Absence of Alice

by Sherry Harris

  Rosalie looked at me with her warm brown eyes crinkling in concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Everything but my pride is fine.” I glanced again at the newcomer, who was still holding the dough off my face.

  “Maybe if we all take a side we can just lift the dough off her hair and it wouldn’t stick as much,” Angelo suggested.

  Most of the people moved out of my line of vision, but I could feel them surrounding me.

  “On the count of three,” Angelo said. “One, two, three. Lift.”

  The pizza dough came off. Sort of. I patted my head and felt bits of dough. I looked at the charming guy. “Sorry to ruin your crust.”

  “It was like a UFO sailing across the room. Not your fault. I’m just sorry you had to be the landing pad.”

  “This is Emil Kowalski. My nephew,” Rosalie said.

  Now I saw the resemblance. The warm eyes, a smile similar to Rosalie’s. But his hair was lighter brown than Rosalie’s.

  I stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Sarah Winston.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Oh, boy. With all the things that had happened in the past two years of my life, that might not be a good thing. I looked at Angelo. “Sorry to ruin your class.”

  “He should have locked the door,” Rosalie said. “Anyone could have walked in. We were lucky it was you instead of some person who would sue us for damages.”

  Angelo shrugged. “Let’s get back to our class, people.”

  Everyone went over to the stove behind the counter where customers placed their orders. That’s when I noticed the nice aroma of tomatoes, basil, and garlic. I was hungry, which was why I’d come here in the first place. My home away from home.

  “Emil’s been working in Rome, Italy, for many years,” Rosalie said.

  That explained why I hadn’t met him before. I needed a chart to keep track of all of the DiNapolis’ relatives, as Rosalie and Angelo both had lots of siblings and thus lots of nephews and nieces.

  “He’s very accomplished. International business.” She leaned in a little closer. “He’s only a year younger than you and single. Plus, he’s learning to cook.” Rosalie looked over at Angelo with his fringe of hair, nose slightly bigger than it should be, and the start of a paunch. “Nothing sexier than a man who can cook.”

  I glanced over at Emil just as he looked up and grinned. Oh, boy, I thought again. “Rosalie, you know I’m happy with Seth.”

  Rosalie put her hands out in a little shrug. “Things can change.”

  “But I hope they don’t.” Seth was amazing. He had served as interim district attorney after the prior DA had gotten ill and had to resign. Last fall, Seth had won his first election, so he could continue his work as the district attorney for Middlesex County. He was the youngest DA ever elected in our county.

  Seth had also been named Massachusetts’s Most Eligible Bachelor year after year, including this year, to my chagrin. I had hoped someone would realize he was taken. Off the market. Mine. I got why he kept getting named because who didn’t love a smart and handsome man? But what most people didn’t know was how he supported me in ways my ex-husband never had, never could.

  “You’re like family already,” Rosalie said.

  I pictured a wedding where I married Emil. Rosalie and Angelo smiling happily. The marriage. The inevitable divorce—guess I wasn’t over my divorce yet. Rosalie and Angelo barring the doors of DiNapoli’s to me when they sided with Emil. It had only been two years since my divorce—less, really, because CJ and my lives had intertwined after we’d split up, and we’d almost gotten back together last spring.

  “Are you okay?” Rosalie asked. “You just smiled and then frowned.”

  “Just picturing the future.” One that would never happen.

  Rosalie patted my arm. “Let me get you some food.”

  Thank heavens she dropped the matchmaking routine.

  Thirty minutes later my stomach was full of pepperoni stromboli. Rosalie wouldn’t let me pay, insisting that it was their fault I now had dried pieces of pizza dough in my hair. I gave up arguing and thanked her before leaving.

  * * *

  I walked home, crossing Great Road, and up one side of the town common. It was a big rectangle of greening grass that proved spring was coming. The towering white Congregational church was at the south side of it, facing DiNapoli’s and other businesses like Carol’s shop. The sun was warm, and I would soon be celebrating the second anniversary of starting my garage sale business. I was throwing a huge garage sale of my own a week from tomorrow. I was pretty darn excited about it.

  Back home in my second-story apartment I stood in front of the mirror using a fine-toothed comb to try to get all of the bits of dried dough out of my hair. They were hard to see in my blond hair, but I wanted to get as much as possible out before I showered. I pictured a cycle of wet and dry dough ruining my day. But once I shampooed and showered, things started to look up. An hour and a half later I fixed a cup of tea and went into my living room and sat down on the couch.

  I loved my small apartment with its wide-planked floors that I’d painted white. I’d filled the room with treasures I’d found at garage sales—an old oriental rug, a flat-topped antique trunk I used as a coffee table, a down-filled couch that my mother had made slipcovers for, an end table that someone had made by hand, and of course my grandmother’s oak rocker. My phone rang. The number was unavailable. I hoped it wasn’t a telemarketer.

  “This is Sarah. How can I help you?” It’s how I answered calls with numbers I didn’t recognize or that were blocked just in case it was a new client.

  “Sarah Winston?” a man said.

  He sounded weirdly like the actor Jack Nicholson when he starred in The Shining. A scary movie I wished I’d never seen and could never quite get out of my head. The scene when Nicholson said, “Here’s Johnny” stuck with me even when I didn’t want it to. “That’s me.”

  “I have Stella,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  Stella Wild was my landlady and good friend. I took my phone away from my ear and looked at it like it would show who was on the other end. But all the screen showed was “unavailable” and the different options like mute, keypad, and speaker. Why would he, whoever he was, say something like that? Staring at my phone told me nothing, and I could hear a tinny voice still jabbering away.

  “Are you there, Sarah?” he asked when I put my phone back to my ear.

  “What do you mean you ‘have’ Stella?” Little prickles of alarm ran up the back of my neck. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Sure you do. If you want to get Stella back alive, I have three rules. First rule: You can’t go to the police, your friend Seth, or Mike ‘the Big Cheese’ Titone for help. If you do, I’ll know. Don’t even talk to the police.” His voice changed to a sneer when he said, “your friend Seth.”

  “Who is this?” I was sure Jack Nicholson wouldn’t be prank calling me. I couldn’t imagine anyone would kidnap Stella. And even if they did, why call me? I didn’t have ransom money. This had to be a terrible joke.

  I looked out my front window to the Congregational church on Ellington’s town common. No answers there. I could understand how someone might know about my association with the police and with Seth. There were articles in the paper, online too, that anyone could dig up if they searched my name on the Internet. My friendship, if you wanted to call it that, with Mike was not as public. It made me wonder if someone had been watching me.

  Mike had done me a favor or two or ten from time to time. He had mob connections, helped Seth out sometimes, and occasionally lived in the apartment next door to me, which he rented full-time from Stella. But Ellington was a small town; probably lots of people knew Mike came out here. He went out running. Any number of people could have seen him here. He had to buy groceries while he was here too. Secrets could be hard to keep in a town like Ellington.

  “Rule number two: You have to go about your daily routine like noth
ing’s happened. And act natural.”

  “Listen, I don’t know who you are—”

  “Oh, but you do, Sarah.”

  The words, the intonation, chilled me. The prickles of unease turned into straight-out alarm.

  “Rule number three: You’ll complete all the tasks I send you while following rules number one and two. And you have a week to do it if you ever want to see Stella again.”

  The call ended before I could say anything else. I dropped into my grandmother’s wooden rocking chair and rubbed my hands over the soft, curved wood arms. Stella was on her way to Los Angeles to perform in The Phantom of the Opera for two weeks. This had to be a prank. Someone had a very sick sense of humor.

  I dialed Stella’s number. It was afternoon in LA, two p.m., and five here in Massachusetts. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I muttered as I waited for a connection. I looked out the window again. April in Ellington went from winter to spring and back again. Today it was spring with lots of sunshine and little buds starting to peek out on the trees. Wait. Stella would still be on the plane. Her flight wouldn’t land for another hour. There was no way she’d answer.

  I heard the connection. “Stella?”

  “Sarah, I didn’t know we’d be talking again so soon.”

  It was the same male voice. My stomach rolled like I was in a plane with the worst turbulence ever. “Prove to me you have Stella.”

  “I’d be delighted to. I was a little surprised, and might I add disappointed, that you didn’t ask me during our first call. You are usually more on your game than that.”

  This person thought this was a game? “Right.” I kept my voice calm, somehow. “If you have her put her on the phone. I’ll ask her a question that only she’d know the answer to.” I wanted to add “you sicko” but managed not to.

  “S-S-S-Sarah.”

  It was Stella, but her voice trembled so much that she hardly got my name out. “Stella. What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Ask her the question that will prove to you I have her or this call is over,” the man said.

  I wasn’t sure I needed to ask. The terror in her voice was enough to convince me it was Stella and that something was horribly wrong. But just in case I went ahead. “What did you give me for Christmas last year?”

  I heard a muffled sob. I put a fist to my heart and rubbed. “Vintage postcards.”

  “Of what?” I had to be sure. Probably lots of people knew I liked them.

  “Monterey. One was dated 1932.”

  I’d grown up in Pacific Grove, the town next to Monterey, California. Stella had found and framed three vintage postcards of the area. They were hanging near the door of my apartment. I choked back a sob. “Stella—”

  “Stella’s tied up, dear. Pun intended. But I have a task for you. Go to 115 West Elm Street. I’ve left you a present. The door’s unlocked. And remember the rules.” The call disconnected.

  * * *

  Just after five thirty I pulled my old, white Suburban up to a pleasant-looking Cape-style house that was tucked away from its neighbors on a quiet cul-de-sac. Green roof. White siding. Lots of trees. Of course there would be. There was a For Sale sign stuck in the lawn. A chipper-looking real estate agent smiled at me from the sign. Dark-haired, pretty. Involved with whoever made the call? I didn’t recognize her name. Why would she be behind this?

  I’d debated whether to come or not. Part of me still hoped this was an elaborate joke. That I’d go into the house and Stella would leap out and say, “Gotcha.” But it was hard to imagine that Stella intentionally would scare me. The less hopeful part of me had prepared a little before dashing over here. I had a small can of hairspray in the pocket of my jacket and had stuck a bottle of wine in my purse. They weren’t much in the way of weapons. My plan was to use the spray and then whack whoever was here with my purse if I needed to.

  I forced myself out of my Suburban and jogged up to the front door. The door, with its lockbox, was ajar, but I knocked anyway. Waited. Knocked again. I cupped my hands to the sidelight beside the door. Peered in. The house was empty—not a bit of furniture and no art on the walls. Nice wood floors. No rugs. A staircase to the right and a living room to the left. A foot with a black Mary Jane shoe stuck out into the hall from what might be the dining room. I shoved the door open. Raced down the hall.

  It was a woman dressed like Alice in Wonderland, complete with a blond wig, blue dress, starched white apron, and white tights. Alice in Wonderland was clearly dead. I closed my eyes for a couple of moments. Forced them open and looked at Alice again. There were no signs of trauma. Her hands were neatly folded across her chest. Her makeup was thick and garish, with bright circles of blush and heavy blue eye shadow. A cell phone lay to one side. It was obvious she’d been arranged.

  It wasn’t Stella. Thank heavens. But it was someone. I didn’t recognize her, and I backed away, leaned against the wall for support. Buzzards filled my head. Wings flapping. Focus. The buzzards came back. I grabbed my phone to call the police and remembered the rules. No police.

  To hell with that. I had to call the police about someone who was dead. I couldn’t stay silent no matter the consequences. Forgive me, Stella. I dialed, reported, and hung up. I’d almost cried when the dispatcher had asked if I was in danger. I had said no even though I wasn’t sure. I raced around the rest of the house looking for Stella. I didn’t go in the creepy-looking basement. I’d seen that movie one too many times and I knew the police would search the house when they arrived.

  When I returned to Alice in Wonderland I snapped a picture of her, because the more I looked at her the more she seemed a bit familiar. I wanted the picture to study later when I was calmer. The cell phone placed near her started ringing. It looked like Stella’s phone with its The Phantom of the Opera case. My phone buzzed with a text message.

  Pick up, Sarah. The passcode is 222212.

  I grabbed the phone even though it was evidence. “What?”

  “You broke my rules.”

  How could he know already? I hadn’t even heard sirens yet. Was a dispatcher doing this? Maybe not. Lots of people had police scanner apps. It could be anyone monitoring them.

  “Like with any game, when you break a rule, there are consequences. This is a major penalty. I dock you twelve hours. You now have six days and twelve hours to find Stella. To save Stella.”

  I choked back what I wanted to say. Made a muffled sound instead.

  The caller laughed. “This is hard, isn’t it, Sarah? But then, you make life hard. Keep the phone. Don’t tell the police you have it. You’ll use the phone to convince Stella’s friends she’s okay out in Los Angeles. Just busy preparing for the play. Especially Awesome. He’ll be the tricky one.”

  Awesome. My nickname for Nathan Bossum. Stella’s fiancé who was a cop.

  “Good luck, Sarah.”

  “Who is she?” I asked, sickened to think she might be dead because of me. No. Not because of me. Because of him.

  “How can you not know?”

  I looked at the body again. I didn’t know her.

  “It’s Alice in Wonderland, silly.”

  Chapter Three

  Awesome stood beside me looking down at Alice in Wonderland. Of course it was Awesome. Did the sicko who was doing this know that Awesome would be on duty when he’d arranged this? Or was it just serendipity? If you could call it that. A slew of technicians and police milled around the scene. Awesome had tried to pull me away from Alice in Wonderland, but I’d refused to move, using the edge of hysteria coursing through me to my advantage.

  I hadn’t answered any of his many questions. How could I? And a debate in my head kept going round and round. Tell him about the call. The rules. Telling him might mean Stella ended up dead. But keeping the secret might mean she ended up dead too. Which was worse? Which was right? Maybe if I figured out who Alice in Wonderland was or why the victim was dressed like that, it would give me a clue as to who had Stella. The
kidnapper thought this was a game. Maybe I should play along like it was one.

  I studied Alice in Wonderland again, trying to commit every detail to memory even though I’d snapped the picture earlier. The blond wig was slightly askew, and brown hair peaked out underneath. Her eyes were closed. Cheeks and lips heavily rouged against the death pallor. The Alice in Wonderland costume looked expensive, not like some cheap rip-off available anywhere. Maybe that would be a lead. Her nails were painted a bright red. No jewelry. White tights. Black Mary Janes, brand new with no dirt or wear on them. She could be anywhere from twenty to fifty. It was hard to tell.

  I turned abruptly and headed out of the house, breathing in the fresh spring air. Shadows were growing longer as the sun traveled west. Not only the actual shadows, but also the ones around my heart. Awesome had followed and stood beside me, tall, lean. He looked like someone you wouldn’t want to meet on a lonely street at midnight. His hair was almost military short. Skin slightly tanned from a trip to Florida he’d taken recently with Stella.

  “Do you know her?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No. At least I don’t think I do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Give me a break,” I snapped. “She’s heavily made up. In a costume. Dead.” My voice shook. As did the rest of me. The air had cooled significantly since I’d arrived.

  “Let’s go sit in my car.” Awesome gestured to a police car at the curb.

  “No. The fresh air feels good.” It was a lie. But I couldn’t be in the intimacy of the police car with him face-to-face, just the two of us. Not until I knew for sure what to do. And how the caller knew I’d contacted the police. That I had connections with the police, Seth, and Mike.

  Awesome put his hands up. “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s disturbing.” If only he knew. “Where’s Pellner?”