I rapped on the door and waited in the cold for Drew to let me in. I tried not to think about the winter that lay ahead, but if I pushed those thoughts to the side, I would revert to worrying about Rozelle, so for the moment, thoughts of winter dominated, followed closely by and intertwining with thoughts of Tony.
Alone on the steps, I shook my head. After the visit from Diana and Detective Nolan, it was a little tough to return to the dinner table with the same somewhat relaxed attitude as before. Talk, as expected, turned to speculation on where Rozelle might be and whether the police involvement was necessary or extraneous. Small wonder Grandy didn’t volunteer any information about his burgeoning relationship with Rozelle. Ben would have had that out and dissected along with his speculation over whether looking for missing persons was a waste of taxpayer money. All in all and given the circumstances, the evening hadn’t provided any hints at how well Tony did or didn’t fit in with the family.
I caught the inside of my lip, asked myself why Tony fitting in was even a consideration. Certainly it was too early in the relationship to—
The door swung open, dragging a rush of morning air past me as Drew stood on the other side of the threshold, sandy hair mussed and green eyes almost frantic.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, practically pushing him back into his office waiting room as I advanced. “What happened?” What with everything that had gone on in Wenwood since I moved in with Grandy, my imagination could go to some troubling places. My heart was prepared to lodge in my throat and adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream. “Are you all right?”
He pushed a hand through his hair and swung the door shut. “It’s the . . . stupid . . . toilet again. I can’t . . .” He sighed and looked at the ceiling. “I’m going to have to call the plumber.”
I squinched one eye shut to keep it from twitching. “You’re having a plumbing emergency?”
“The toilet’s clogged,” he said. He rolled down his shirtsleeves as he passed through the doorway from the waiting area to his office. “To me, that’s an emergency.”
I followed him inside, set the paper bag with my egg sandwich inside on the edge of his desk. Drew fell into his chair and I took a bracing sip of my coffee then said, “I take it you haven’t heard the news?”
He paused in rubbing his hands over his face, peering at me between his fingers. “What news?”
“About Rozelle? About her being missing?”
“Rozelle?” he asked, wrinkles of memory strain forming on his forehead. “From the bakery Rozelle?”
“That would be she.”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?”
One-handed, I dragged one of the visitor chairs closer and settled in to tell him the story. I kept to the few details I knew—that Rozelle hadn’t been seen since Saturday morning, the police thought Grandy might know where she was, and oh yeah, someone ate a pastry Rozelle had made and didn’t survive the night.
“So it’s all very . . . strange and unsettling,” I said, summing up. “And it makes your clogged toilet seem a bit trivial in comparison.”
Drew folded his hands and sat back, the tall backing of his leather desk chair giving him the look of a framed portrait. “In comparison.” He pulled in a noisy breath. “And you’re sure the police weren’t suspicious of Pete in any way?”
I opted to answer with a glare.
“Okay, okay.” For a brief moment he appeared lost in thought. I stood from the chair, reasoning that perhaps he was going to spend some time absorbing all I’d told him. But instead of leaving his office and starting in on my own work, I said, “Just out of curiosity . . .”
I waited until his gaze met mine, then continued. “If I were to say, go have a look around Rozelle’s house, just to be sure she wasn’t there, what would the legality be there? Out of curiosity.”
Drew lowered his hands. “Strictly outside the house?”
“Well.” It was my turn to study the ceiling. “I’d have to stay outside if the door was locked, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want to be accused of breaking and entering or anything. But if the door happened to be open . . .”
He grimaced and shook his head. “First of all, you could only be charged with trespassing. New York doesn’t list breaking and entering as a crime. But more importantly, I’m sure Pete wouldn’t be too happy to hear you were nosing around in matters that aren’t your business.”
The temptation to tell him my nosing around was Pete’s idea in the first place rushed through me. To keep from blurting out that tidbit, I kept to the law. “So what’s the difference between breaking and entering and trespassing?”
“In those states that recognize it as a crime, the police can charge you with breaking and entering. For trespassing, the owner of the property has to press charges.”
I nodded to show I was following along. Drew interpreted the action as me plotting something.
“Georgia, I wouldn’t recommend trying to let yourself into Rozelle’s house,” he said, voice stern and expression serious. “The law may be on your side, but you don’t want to be sitting in jail waiting for me to remind the authorities of that.”
“Awww.” I grinned. “You’d really come try and get me out of jail? That’s so sweet.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’d be there right away. And I’ll bring your grandfather so he can offer his opinion on your situation.”
In other circumstances the threat may have worked. In this one, however . . .
“Don’t forget to call the plumber.” I picked up the paper bag, long since resigned to the impending need to warm the sandwich in the microwave, and scooted through the door that led from his office to the back room. I had work to do . . . and plans to make.
* * *
Comfortable in the quiet of Drew’s back office, I’d calmly progressed to the point of sealing the envelope on the last ready bill when my cell phone broke the silence. Idina Menzel’s soaring voice, usually so exhilarating, so brilliant, startled the breath out of me.
“Carrie,” I said, no doubt sounding like I’d just finished a marathon. “Hi. What’s up?”
“You know Tom’s friend Terry who was in here the other day?” she said.
“What about him?” I sat up a little straighter.
“He’s here. He’s looking for you.” Her voice had a flattened sound to it, as though she were cupping her hand over the speaker so no one would hear. I had an instant visual of her hiding in the back room, whispering on the cordless. “He says you wanted to talk to him. That’s what Tom told him, he says.”
“He’s there now?” I stood, gripping the phone with one hand and gathering the outgoing mail into a stack with the other.
“He’s out on the sales floor,” she said. I gave myself a mental high five for being right about Carrie hunkering in the back room. “So is it true? You’re looking for him? Why?”
Grabbing my purse from the back of the chair, I used a combination of foot and hip to slide the chair into place beneath the table. “I wanted to talk to him about—”
I hadn’t prepared myself for telling anyone but Terry what I intended. Certainly I hadn’t meant to keep anything from Carrie, but I kinda didn’t want to fess up to going off snooping.
“Georgia Kelly, are you planning on going off snooping without me?” Carrie demanded to know.
I froze. “Absolutely not?”
“Georgia!”
“Carrie, honestly, last time wasn’t enough for you?” I asked on a sigh. Back in motion, I shoved a hand into my purse to blindly feel around for my car keys.
Her responding huff came across the line sounding like mild static. “I want to at least know what’s going on. Are you and Terry going to go poking around the David Rayburn thing?”
Mascara, lip balm, old receipts—I was coming up with everything except keys. “That’s truly not what I had in mind.”
There was barely enough time to draw breath before Carrie said, “Oh, you’re going to try and find out where Rozelle is. Good. Count me in. Should I tell Terry you’re on your way?”
“As soon as I find my keys,” I mumbled. “But, Carrie, you—”
“Great. We’ll be ready.”
“Wait, Car—” But of course, she hung up before I could get the sentence out. Talking Carrie out of helping would have to wait. Besides, once we were face-to-face, it would be easier to get her to see reason.
* * *
Carrie drove.
The sky had grown overcast while I toiled away at Drew’s, updating his accounts and pulling files for his afternoon clients. With the weakening sunshine, the chill seemed to grow, and my toes had gone icy in my thin dress shoes.
“You sure you know where you’re going?” Terry asked from the backseat.
“We’re almost there, I promise.” Carrie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. With Terry along for the ride, I couldn’t ask her whether the strain was due to his presence or due to memories of getting caught up in the dispute over the Heaney estate. Regardless the cause, her tension was evident.
She made a right turn and proceeded slowly along a narrow road so chewed up I wouldn’t be surprised if the last time it was paved, Jimmy Carter was president. The front left tire caught the edge of a pothole and her otherwise comfortable sedan bounced us around like a dingy on a stormy sea.
“Jeez, what’s wrong with this town? Why don’t they fix the roads? Criminettely, I’ll be glad to get back to North Carolina after this.”
Carrie hunkered closer to the steering wheel and I was saved from commenting by the ping of an incoming text message.
I yanked my cell phone free of the side pocket of my purse and checked my display. Message from Tony. What are you doing today?
I didn’t want to lie to him. But telling the truth didn’t feel like a good plan either. As I pondered the best compromise, I checked the changing color of the tree leaves as we drove beneath the boughs.
Carrie and I are taking a ride over to Rozelle’s. Why? What’s up? I typed, then hit “Send.”
“There it is,” Terry said. “Lakeland Avenue. That’s the left.”
Carrie blew out a breath and switched on the turn signal.
As she guided the car around the corner, I took a keener look at our surroundings. A part of Wenwood I had never been through before, the area had the classic, aged look the old riverside houses had. But where the riverside houses had been built to accommodate the large families whose patriarchs the brickworks employed, here the houses were small, built perhaps for single men, or newlyweds’ summer getaway. Tiny homes in which standard-sized doorways looked oversized and out of perspective.
“All right, everyone look for 624,” Terry said.
A peek at the first house number—12—informed us we had a ways to go. It took until we were in the low 400s for Tony’s reply to come back.
Done at the site for the day. Dinner?
Dinner.
On the other side of a cross street on which the last house was 418, the first house was 588. “Five eighty-eight? What kind of crazy town is this?” I murmured.
“Now, when we get there, you ladies wait in the car. I’ll go look around.”
I cut a glance at Carrie to make sure we were in agreement. The pursing of her lips told me I needn’t have worried.
Turning in my seat, I gave Terry my best dealing-with-problem-customers squint. “We’re doing this together or Carrie’s going to drive right on by. I did not come all the way out here to sit in the car. Got it?”
Terry gave a sort of smirk and lifted his shoulders, and I was left wondering if he had been teasing when he said he would go it alone. I didn’t have the luxury of wondering for long. As I looked away from Terry and prepared to turn and face forward in my seat, I caught sight of a car rolling along behind us by about half a block. Big and gray, the sedan appeared to be traveling at precisely our speed. Were we being followed?
I shook the thought out of my head and turned around to face front. Thinking we were being followed was paranoia plain and simple. It’s not like I had seen the car behind us until now. And clearly other people used the roads.
“This looks like it.” Carrie slowed the car and pulled smoothly into the vacant spot at curbside.
The house, like its neighbors, was a mere teabag of a structure—single step to the front door, one large window, and just a suggestion of front yard. But a pot filled to overflowing with two colors of mums sat beside the step, and a shepherd’s hook held a bird feeder, half-filled. A statue of an angel at prayer knelt among the ground cover lining the front of the house. Such simple touches were enough to elevate the building to charming.
Eyes on the angel, I climbed out of the car. Terry followed suit, and we stood together on the ragged edge of the lawn, examining the house.
“Welp,” Terry said. “It doesn’t look like Rozelle has suddenly returned home.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, then answered my own question. “There’s mail in the box.” An old-fashioned metal mailbox hung vertically between the door and the window, its cover propped open by an array of envelopes.
“Indeed there is,” he said. He shuffled forward a couple of steps. “Your friend not coming?”
I looked behind me, turning in the same moment the gray sedan rolled by, its side windows smoked dark. Keeping an eye on the vehicle’s progress, I knocked on the window of Carrie’s car and she obligingly powered it down. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
She held up a cell phone. “I’ll be lookout. If anything happens, I’m here to call 911.”
I thought to question her on her change of heart. After she insisted on inclusion, I figured she would have been right there with me, peering in windows and expecting any minute for Rozelle to come bursting through the door and shoo us away from her property. But maybe she’d come as close as she could to a potential problem. It hadn’t been that long ago that her own apartment had been ransacked, her belongings scattered like the leaves littering the roads. If Rozelle’s home had been ransacked, the sight may have been more than Carrie was prepared for.
I nodded my agreement on Carrie’s lookout plan and turned to get back to snooping.
Terry was already steps from the front window, his head swiveling back and forth as though he expected some hidden assailant to burst out of the neighbor’s bushes. But apart from the two of us and our prowling, the area was still, its residents either off at work or locked in the comfort of their homes. The afternoon sunshine was losing its warmth, and I tugged my jacket close around me as I hurried to catch up with Terry.
He stood on tiptoe at the front door, running his fingers over the top of the door frame. I chuckled. “If you’re looking for a key, Rozelle is way too short to stash one up high,” I said.
Terry sighed. “It never hurts to be thorough.”
I knelt beside the front step. Carefully tipping the statue of the angel, I peered at its underside, searching for any sort of seam in the plaster that might indicate a hidden compartment.
Nothing.
For good measure I brushed my hands through some of the ground cover. I had no idea how big those fake rocks were that were advertised late at night, but I was relatively confident they’d be bigger than the average garden stone.
Terry passed behind me, and I got a good look at his scuffed and worn boat shoes as he came to a stop. I considered asking him what he thought of the marina, but thoughts of the marina led to thoughts of Tony, and I wanted to stay focused.
I brushed bits of dirt from my hands as I stood.
Terry held his hands cupped around his face, his forehead practically touching the glass of the large front window.
“See anything?” I asked, duplicating his pose. Irish lace curtains hung insid
e, the gaps between motifs wide enough to allow a fairly good view.
“She’s got a nice big television,” he said. “Look at that.”
The television was tough to miss. It sat on an angle in the corner, its screen practically dwarfing the more Rozelle-sized furniture—low-back loveseat, mismatched accent chairs, a side table that looked more like a nightstand, all gathered around a circular rug that had to be less than ten feet in diameter.
“Be good for watching the game,” Terry muttered.
I made some noise to indicate agreement then stepped forward until my nose touched the glass. Not the tip of my nose, but the flat of it below the bridge. Maybe if I moved closer, I could see better, I could see more, I could see Rozelle.
But there was no movement inside the house. Nothing appeared disturbed. And really, having been in Carrie’s apartment after it had been torn apart, I felt I was making an educated observation. No one had been in Rozelle’s looking for anything—not her best jewelry, her best recipes, or the poison that had found its way into David Rayburn’s Danish.
At the back of the living room, a half wall divided Rozelle’s home theater from her kitchen. From our vantage point at the window, all I could make out were cabinets, with a braid of garlic hung between two pairs of hinges.
“I’m going around back,” I said.
I didn’t wait to see if Terry was going to join me, but I didn’t rush either. Calmly and slowly I walked along the little front garden, past the kneeling angel and the hanging bird feeder. I was looking for footprints, any footprints. Little feet that might belong to Rozelle or big feet that might belong to some miscreant. Either one could provide a clue we needed.
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