Absence of Alice

by Sherry Harris

  Who would have ever thought that Elmer would be a ride share driver? And yet his ratings were fairly high. That didn’t go along with his reputation. Maybe the stories about him were exaggerated, or maybe he’d changed his ways. As much as I didn’t want to talk to him, I had to. At least he’d be easy to find.

  I drove to Dunkin’s and bought two cups of coffee and a half dozen assorted donuts. Back at my apartment I used my phone to order the ride share. I requested Elmer. It said he would arrive in twelve minutes. I put my hair up in a ponytail and put on a Red Sox cap. I pulled it low over my face and added a big set of sunglasses even though it was cloudy out. Maybe if he didn’t recognize me as the person who outbid him, things would go more smoothly. Maybe he hadn’t even seen my face at the auction. I hoped he hadn’t.

  A black SUV with the license plate XORSOX pulled up. I’d have to talk fast. How had Stella ended up getting in the wrong car? If that’s what had happened. I didn’t know for sure. I’d requested a ride to the shopping mall in Burlington, which was about twenty minutes away, hoping that would give me time to ask all the questions I needed to. I climbed in the back seat. Elmer looked a lot like the picture on the ride share app with a broad forehead and jawline. Stubble stuck out every which way, as if he only saw the need to shave every third day or so. His nose was smashed flat at the bridge, like someone had decked him one too many times. Given his reputation, that wasn’t surprising.

  I stuck out the donuts. “These are for you.”

  Elmer glanced in the rearview, and I looked down so he’d see the brim of my hat. He grabbed the box and tossed it on the seat next to him.

  “I’m diabetic, have high cholesterol, and my doctor said gluten is causing inflammation.”

  Great. I should have brought him hard-boiled eggs. Although maybe he was following a vegan diet too.

  He opened the box, snatched a donut, took a big bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I told my doctor to go to hell. I know vets with better sense.”

  “I brought coffee too. Black.” I held out the cup, again keeping my head down. “I brought some sugars and creamer if you need it.”

  “Naw. Black’s the only way to go. I’m not supposed to have caffeine either, so thanks.”

  I couldn’t decide if he was happy or mad. Elmer pulled away from the curb, chomping on his second donut.

  “My landlady Stella recommended you.”

  “I’ve known her since she was in diapers. Taught her sixth-grade science class.”

  The town curmudgeon had taught young kids? “She’s a gem,” I said.

  “Strangest thing. I was supposed to pick her up a couple of days ago, and she didn’t come out of the house. She usually comes right out after I pull up. I was about ten minutes late. I went up and knocked on her front door.”

  “That doesn’t sound like her. What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She didn’t answer her door. I eventually left. But it bothered me. Sure I was late, but I could have gotten her to the airport on time. Unlike her not to let me know she didn’t need me or to cancel the ride.”

  “Were there any other cars around when you pulled up?”

  “A gray one pulled away from the curb and flew down the street as I rounded the corner. Typical Masshole driver. You shouldn’t drive like that on a side street.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Looked like every other gray car on the planet. What happened to car designers? No one takes a risk anymore. No classic Thunderbirds or Mustangs. No fins.” He shook his head. “They all look the same. Bland.”

  “Did you notice the plate?” Although that car might have been stolen too. In that case the license plate number wouldn’t be important, but I had to turn over every stone until I found Stella. The person who’d tried to kidnap Seth had been in a black van. But maybe, after he’d ditched it in the Cambridge Reservoir, the kidnapper had to use his own car. I needed a break.

  “Massachusetts plates 294—hey, why are you asking all these questions?” He looked in the rearview again. I didn’t duck my head in time. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and swerved to the curb. “I know who you are. Sarah Winston.” He spit my name out like something tasted bad in his mouth. “Get out.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Just tell me if you got the rest of the plate number. Please.”

  He glared at me, face red. “That’s all I saw. Get out.”

  I climbed out, and he sped away from the curb. Fortunately, it wasn’t that far of a walk home, and at least I had a tiny bit of information. Gray car, Massachusetts plates, starting with 294.

  * * *

  Harriet had to take her niece to physical therapy this morning, so I worked at John’s house alone. Working here when I should be out looking for Stella was beyond frustrating. Even if I couldn’t price everything in time for John’s sale, even if he fired me or wrote a bad review and Zoey got all future business, it was less important than finding Stella. It was day three since she’d been kidnapped. My personal deadline. But the kidnapper had said to go about my routine, and here I was following his orders again.

  I would work for a little while. Maybe something would come to me. I picked up one of the many tramp art picture frames John wanted to get rid of. He and his husband had decided to go more modern when they moved to Boston. I was keeping an eye out for fifties and sixties furniture for them when I went to garage sales and thrift shops.

  My phone rang. It was Alice Krandle.

  “Sarah, you did such a wonderful job with my garage sale.”

  “Thank you.” It was nice to hear something positive with all that was going on.

  “I decided to sell more of my things. Can you swing by tomorrow so we can talk about another sale?”

  The difficulty of working with Alice and my need for income did a brief war with each other. Income won. “Of course. What time works for you?”

  “Around nine-thirty?” she asked.

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.”

  I roamed the house pricing things and worrying, for a couple of hours until my phone chimed. It jerked me back to reality, which was somewhere I didn’t want to be right now. I glanced down with trepidation, but it was Damaris Christos, a therapist in town. What could this be about?

  Chapter Eighteen

  A half hour later I sat across from Damaris at the Dunkin’s in Bedford. Damaris was as beautiful as her Greek name, with thick, dark hair, huge brown eyes, enviable long eyelashes, and she didn’t even wear makeup. She looked like she was around my age. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted. Damaris had moved to town in January and had sent me her business card after I was in the press for a murder I’d been embroiled in. I guess she had thought I might need therapy, but I hadn’t taken her up on it. I hoped that wasn’t why we were here today.

  I knew how hard it was to start a new business, but if she was so desperate that she was calling people to drum up clients, things must not be going well for her. Damaris flicked her hair back across her shoulder, and she seemed nervous. I thought therapists were supposed to be good at hiding their emotions. It made me feel even more unsettled.

  “What do you need?” I asked. One of us had to start with conversation. Drinking coffee and awkwardly glancing at each other was getting us nowhere.

  She leaned forward, perched on the very edge of the hard, plastic seat. Easy to clean, not comfortable to sit on very long which I supposed was the whole point. I watched as she changed the expression on her face. Set it to neutral.

  “I run a therapy group for family members who have loved ones who are incarcerated.”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard about it. At the Congregational church on the town common, right?” What did this have to do with me? Perhaps she wanted me to run a garage sale to raise money for her group. I felt a little warm glow. I’d be happy to do that. Charity garage sales gave me a lot of joy, and I could help my adopted community—after I got Stella back. I would get Stella
back or die trying. I repressed a shiver at that unwelcome thought.

  Damaris flicked her hair again. “Yes.” She put her hands around her coffee cup like she wanted to warm them. “I have to be careful what I tell you because of the confidentiality between a therapist and her patients.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can.” Just spit it out. I had things to do.

  “Something disturbing has come to my attention, and it concerns you.”

  I had my cup lifted halfway to my mouth, but I froze. After a moment I managed to set my cup back down. “Just tell me.”

  “One of the group members came to me and told me a splinter group has formed off my group.” She took a drink of her coffee. “They have a grudge against you. A sort of ‘we hate Sarah’ group. Since you helped the police send their loved ones to prison.”

  I knew my mouth was hanging open, but it took me a few moments to close it. “Who are they?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you that information.”

  “But what if they want to hurt me?”

  “From what my client told me, there’s been no mention of violence. It’s more just venting.” She shifted in her seat. “And now that I know about the situation, we will be concentrating on not blaming others for the actions of their loved ones.”

  That was all well and good, but Damaris didn’t know about Stella being kidnapped. Maybe it was someone in the splinter group who was doing all of this. “This is very unsettling. Scary. I think I have a right to know who they are.”

  Damaris stood. “I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did.”

  “Then why mention it at all?”

  Damaris bit her lip. “Don’t worry. It’s under control.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “If you want to discuss your fears concerning this, here’s my card.”

  My fears? She had a group she couldn’t control. Instead of helping them, she’d somehow fired up at least some of them. When I didn’t take the card from her, she put it on the table next to me and strode off. A slow burn of anger built in me as I stared down at her card. I picked it up and ripped it into tiny pieces. Not that it made me feel any better. How was I going to find out who was in the splinter group?

  * * *

  When I got home I checked the Congregational church’s calendar. The incarcerated loved ones group met today at four. It wasn’t like I could show up for the meeting, and I couldn’t think of anyone I knew to ask if they could go. And even if I did know someone, asking them to spy for me wouldn’t be fair to them. I paced back and forth across my living room a few times before I made a phone call.

  “Frida, I need your help,” I said. Frida Chida had her own cleaning business and also cleaned the church. We’d started out very suspicious of each other when her former employer had been killed, but she had helped Miss Belle out for me last summer. I hoped Frida would help me now. Plus, Frida had lived in Ellington for a long time and knew a lot of people.

  “What kind of help? Honestly, your apartment isn’t that big. I’d think you could clean it yourself.”

  That was Frida for you. Blunt and to the point. “I don’t need you to clean for me.” I filled her in on my conversation with Damaris. “I really need to know who is in the splinter group.”

  “And you want me to be cleaning outside of where they meet to see who goes in there?”

  “Yes. You’ve lived here all of your life and would probably recognize the people in the group.” Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, but I was feeling very desperate right now.

  “I don’t like the idea of spying on people who already have their share of problems.”

  “I understand that.” I didn’t feel great about asking her to do it.

  “But I also don’t like the idea of people sitting around bad-mouthing you with all the good you do for others.”

  I gripped my phone a little tighter, trying not to get my hopes up.

  “I’ll do the best I can to find out who’s in the group.”

  “Thank you, Frida. And please don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  “I won’t. You know me.”

  I guess I did.

  * * *

  I made a Fluffernutter sandwich, which consisted of white bread, peanut butter, and marshmallow fluff. It was my go-to comfort food, but today it tasted terrible. I forced myself to eat it because I couldn’t help Stella if I couldn’t function. I was running on almost empty the way it was.

  As I ate, I went over people who might be mad at me because their loved one was incarcerated. The list was longer than I liked, and, worse, most of those people probably had extended family and friends who I knew nothing about. Even if Frida got me some names, I might just be chasing rainbows. I’d go nuts just sitting here, so I decided to price more things for my anniversary sale.

  At three thirty I looked out my window at the Congregational church. It stood tall in the bright spring sunlight. There were several entrances. I had a great view of the main one that went into a vestibule that led to the sanctuary. A side door that I could also see led down to the classrooms where Sunday school and other events were held. There was also an entrance around back, out of view, that led to the kitchen. It seemed like people who attended the group session would most likely use the side entrance. If I had a pair of binoculars I could watch who went in around four.

  But that wouldn’t help. According to the church website, there were other activities at four like choir practice and after-school programs. I’d be better off continuing to distract myself by doing more pricing for my sale. Frida would call or come over soon enough. Hopefully then I’d have another lead and I’d find Stella.

  I’d stacked some things to price in the corner of the living room to the left of the window. My apartment had a sloping ceiling on that side and a short five-foot-high wall. I grabbed some boxes and carried them over to the trunk in front of my couch. Last year, I’d collected vintage Christmas ornaments to make my mom a wreath like one my aunt had that my mom loved. The wreath was really cute, but I’d ended up with more ornaments than I needed. It was a problem when I started collecting something new. It was easy to buy more (although not always cost-effective) on sites like Etsy and eBay.

  The ornaments were called Shiny Brites. Before World War II, almost all of the glass ornaments on American Christmas trees had been imported from Germany. To ensure Americans could still buy them during the war, Max Eckardt had teamed up with the Corning Glass company to produce machine-blown glass balls. Max had convinced Woolworths to sell them, and they had been an instant hit.

  People still loved them today because they remembered their grandmother or mother having them. The ornaments were clear at first, but they soon added color to them. Which was why I was sitting here pricing red, silver, blue, and green ornaments. I soon realized I didn’t want to part with any of them. Maybe I should make a wreath for myself. As I priced I rehashed everything that had happened in the last three days. Nothing new, no inspiration came to me. There wasn’t much I could do until I heard from Frida or Stella’s kidnapper.

  At five fifteen I heard loud voices out in the hall arguing and went running out to see what was going on. Frida and Mike’s brother Francesco were toe-to-toe at the top of the stairs, yelling at each other.

  “Let me by,” Frida shouted. Frida was a thick, sturdy woman from all her years as a cleaning lady. Last summer I’d helped find her a job working for Miss Belle that put less stress on her body and more joy in her work life.

  “No one gets by me without ID and purpose of visit,” Francesco said.

  “She’s here to see me, and this has got to stop,” I said. “I’ll take this up with Mike later. Come on, Frida.”

  Francesco stepped back, and Frida charged by him, jabbing an elbow into his stomach. He didn’t react, but Frida rubbed her elbow. Francesco shrugged. I interpreted the shrug as “take up whatever you want with Mike; nothing’s going to change.”


  * * *

  I fixed Frida a cup of English breakfast tea, and she settled on my grandmother’s rocking chair. I sat on the sofa with my own cup of tea. Frida had burgundy streaks in her gray hair and wore black knit pants with a worn Patriots’ sweatshirt.

  “So?” I asked.

  Frida frowned at her tea and then over at me. “It’s not good, Sarah. I swept, mopped, and then dusted. I think Damaris caught on because she eventually closed the door. But first I heard her talking about not blaming the police or others who locked their family members or friends up.”

  “Could you see their reactions?” I held my tea, warming my hands.

  “Yeah. Fortunately the door has a big window. Some people leaned in nodding, but another group sat back and crossed their arms over their chests.”

  “How many leaned back?”

  “I counted five.”

  That was consistent with what Damaris had said. “Did you know them?”

  “Only one. Louisa Crane. Do you know her?”

  I thought for a minute and then shook my head. “I don’t.” I hadn’t helped with a case with someone whose last name was Crane. “What do you know about her?”

  “Not much. I cleaned for her once about six months ago when she was moving from one apartment to another. It’s not like we run in the same social circles.”

  I briefly wondered what kind of social circles Frida ran in. “Does she have money?” Maybe that would be some sort of indicator.

  “Not if the apartment I cleaned was any indication. The whole building seemed to sag. Old linoleum peeling up in the kitchen. Yellowed roller shades at the windows.”

  “But she had enough to pay you.”

  Frida nodded. “With a generous tip.”

  Hmmmm. Someone who’d come into some money? “Do you know where she moved to?”

  “I don’t. If you have paper and pen, I can write down descriptions of the others.” I went into my bedroom and found a notebook in my nightstand. I had pens on the top of the trunk from pricing ornaments. I gave both to Frida and watched as she wrote, brow creased in concentration. Ten minutes later she handed the notebook to me and stood.