*
Finally. Traffic had been hellish, the forecast of bad weather inspiring Boston’s already unpredictable drivers into speeding like maniacs or hugging the slow lane. Tuck had called, saying she and Carlyn were having popcorn and watching a movie, and they’d be in touch.
Jane made the turn onto Margolin Street. Most driveways were empty, garage doors closed. Every Bostonian knew this was a night to keep your car inside. She squinted through the dark and mist, scanning under porch lights for house numbers. Almost there.
A blue Accord was parked up the street. Ella? Pulling closer, she could see the empty front seat. And a bumper sticker announcing I HEART ADOPTION.
“Stupid!” Jane said out loud. If Ella had gone inside …
The 411 operator had told her Lillian Finch’s address was 27 Margolin. No car in that driveway. Porch light on, and some interior lights. No crime scene tape. Maybe the cops had taken it down.
Where the hell was Ella?
She eased into the parking spot behind what must be Ella’s car, grabbed her cell phone, punched in the number. A van was parked way up Margolin, but otherwise the street was deserted. That’s because the smart people were inside.
The phone rang, and rang again, and then went to voice mail.
“This is Ella Gavin. I’m sorry I can’t…”
Jane clonked her head against the back of her seat as the phone message ran out. She ignored the beep, hung up. Now what?
Then she saw the smoke.
65
“Why did we come back here, a-gain?” Kellianne wanted to go home. It was starting to snow a little, freezing, and the new ’bilia she’d snagged was burning a hole in her tote bag. After the boys finished inside, cleaning or whatever, they’d packed up the empty plastic containers, one of the solvent buckets, and the smaller drop cloth, and shoved it all into the back of the van. They’d started for home, driven a few blocks, yammering the whole way, and Kellianne figured they were out of there. Then Kev doubled back, and now, for some stupid reason, they were parked up the street from that woman’s house.
“Are you listening to me? Yoo-hoo, in the front seat?”
“Stuff it, little girl.” Kev didn’t even turn around. “We don’t have to tell you a thing.”
“Yeah.” Keefer didn’t look at her, either. “Just shut up and think about—”
“She doesn’t think,” Kev said. “Doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
They were staring out the windshield. Laughing. At her.
So dumb. And so wrong. She did too think. Right now she was thinking she needed to get home and look at her stuff. She sure couldn’t do it in the backseat of the stupid van, even though her brothers were glued to the window. Looking at what?
“You see anything?” Keefer said.
“Nope.” Kev buzzed down his window, stuck his nose out, and sniffed.
Maybe he was trying to catch a clean breath. The car was so hazy with weed and chemicals it was making her high just sitting there. She thought again about the contents of her tote bag. This time she hadn’t held back. It was kind of—stealing. She didn’t like the word. But again. If family members hadn’t come to take the stuff, maybe no one wanted it. She bet no one even knew what the dead woman had in her bedroom drawers, so it wouldn’t be missed. Yes. She was right. It was all fine.
A couple of pearl necklaces, a silver bracelet, some earrings—old lady clip-ons, but who cared—and a semicool gold chain. She glanced at the two doofus boys, but they were still focused front, so she rummaged into the bag and pulled out the chain. Yanking her parka open, she fastened the clasp around her neck, then patted it into place, feeling the weight of the metal through her T-shirt. She didn’t have to sell everything. She’d put the gold cross she’d taken from the old guy’s keys on this chain. It was okay for her to have nice things. About time, too.
“Can’t smell anything, either,” Kev said, closing his window. “Should be soon, though.”
“What should be soon? What are we doing? I’m not kidding, you guys are the weirdest…”
And then she looked up and saw—was it smoke?
*
Not in Lillian’s desk. Not in the files. Darn. Ella slid the second file cabinet drawer back into place and surveyed Lillian’s tiny home office, hands on hips. Walnut-stained bookshelves, desk, rolling swivel chair, tweed love seat, rectangular coffee table covered with a flowery cloth, canvas magazine rack. No windows.
Lucky the living room light had been on, and back here, the office light, too. At first she’d worried, but then decided maybe the police didn’t want burglars to believe the house was vacant. Made sense.
She’d been here a couple of times, but never thought about where Lillian might hide something. She sniffed, trying to ignore the funny smell. Ella’s eyes were smarting a little, maybe because she was so nervous. Every second it seemed like she heard a weird noise. But that couldn’t be. She was alone.
Which reminded her. Jane would be arriving soon. She had to hurry. She could call Jane and find out how soon, she supposed. But she’d left her phone in the car. Maybe use Lillian’s? If it hadn’t been disconnected? She picked up the receiver of the black desk phone. No dial tone. Jane’s number was in her cell, anyway, not in her head. Better to just hurry.
She wrinkled her nose. Musty or something. Well, the house had been closed since … oh. Ella’s arms went goose bumps. Was this what death smelled like? Was she smelling death?
Her eyes widened. Heart raced. It felt like the walls of the little office were closing in on her. She should go. Leave. Now. Nothing was worth—But then, no. No. This was her only chance, maybe, to find the proof that the Brannigan was sending families the wrong children. Lillian always kept every document. She’d told Ella that from day one. Since there was nothing incriminating in Lillian’s office at the Brannigan, whatever she’d kept must be here.
Or in a safe deposit box, or in a safe, or somewhere else completely, Ella’s common sense yelled at her. Or perhaps you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.
She refused to accept that. Because the thing that brought her here—all those files she looked at Sunday night about the Beerman baby, and the other most recent calls—Hoffner, Lamonica, DaCosto—everything had looked normal. No secret scribbles or special codes, no yellow stickies or funny numbers. Nothing that would indicate those reunited families were different from any others.
I’ve looked at these from top to bottom, from head to toe, she’d complained out loud to Whiskers. That’s what did it.
Head to toe.
It wasn’t about what was in the files. It was about what wasn’t in them.
That’s what she was looking for.
*
Was it really smoke? Jane rolled down her car window, leaning out through the half-rain half-snow that slickened the streets and would threaten power lines if the temperature kept falling. She thought she’d seen the slightest of wisps, snaking from the basement window on the side of Lillian’s house. Now it was gone. Maybe it was from neighborhood fireplaces. Or the wind.
She buzzed up the window, looked at the glowing numbers on her dashboard. Nine thirty. It had taken her frustratingly long to get here in the maddening traffic. Ella promised to wait. Clearly she hadn’t. Now she wasn’t answering her phone.
Nine thirty-one. Now what? There was no police tape, but no matter. If Ella was inside, that was something Jane would not get involved in. Ella Gavin, a grown-up, could make her own decisions. If she’d illegally entered a crime scene, that decision was a stupid one.
Jane blew out a breath, calculating.
If Ella was in the Finch house, it was so absurd that—Damn. Jane turned off the engine, and opened the door into the night before she could change her mind. She’d knock on the door, see if Ella was there, and drag the idiot woman out of the house before she could do anything dumb. Well, dumber.
Jane checked both ways as she crossed Margolin Street. Unnecessary. There was no traffi
c. Just more sleet. She wrapped her muffler closer. Got angrier with every stride. She should be home, with a glass of wine. And possibly, Jake, planning their future, not goose-chasing this delusional person who imagined she’d find proof that an adoption agency was sending birth parents the wrong children. She would definitely kill Tuck.
Thing was. It would make a hell of a story. If she could nail it tonight, get whatever Ella was searching for, she could bang out such a blockbuster she’d be on the front page for weeks. Her job would be safe and everyone would live happily ever after.
She marched up the front walk, head down against the bluster, in the lee of the big shrubs, practicing what she’d say to Ella. Get out, let’s leave, let’s meet with my city editor, decide what to do. In a reasonable way. A legal way. Let’s make sure you aren’t arrested for trespassing and burglary.
At the front door, she knocked. Again. Nothing. She rang the doorbell, but didn’t hear a chime echoing from inside. Broken? She knocked again. No answer.
Maybe Ella wasn’t inside after all.
She turned, ready to bail. Happy to bail. Relieved.
She could talk to Ella in the morning.
*
The smell was getting worse, and it seemed like the room was … well, Ella’s knees felt a little shaky. No wonder she was nervous. She kept hearing funny noises. It had to be the wind, though. Tree branches hitting the roof.
Ella lowered herself to the love seat, taking deep calming breaths. She’d rest, only for a moment. She felt a little sleepy, probably nerves. Leaning back on the cushion, she stretched full length, trying to slide her feet under the coffee table, but instead, they hit something solid. Huh. The table was more like a … She leaned forward, lifting the heavy cloth that draped over … something.
A trunk. Under the fabric, the table was really a trunk. Like those steamer trunks she’d seen in old movies. She picked up the fabric by the hem, and saw the trunk’s two metal clasps, each with a loop for a padlock. But no locks held them in place.
Her eyes were beginning to water a bit. She was doing her best not to think what death smelled like, or how long Lillian’s body had lain, undiscovered, in the bedroom right next door. She had decided to do this, and she was going to do it.
Ella stood, pulled at the cloth cover, tossed it aside. Lillian wasn’t there to make sure everything stayed exactly in place.
Using both hands, Ella flapped open the clasps and lifted the lid. It creaked up on expanding metal hinges, and when she pushed it to the limit, it stayed in place with a click.
She stared at what she saw inside, almost afraid to reach out her hand to touch it.
The lid slammed closed. Ella jumped back, terrified at the sound.
“Ow!” she yelled, though she wasn’t hurt. She held a hand to her pounding heart. Tried to smile. “Pull yourself together, Ella.”
She creaked open the top again, this time holding it in place with one hand while she stared at the contents.
It was not packed with clothes, or old blankets, or battered photo albums. No family heirlooms, no souvenirs or memorabilia. On the bottom of the trunk, a spindly metal file holder, matching the empty one she’d seen on Lillian’s desk. But this one wasn’t empty.
One after the other, manila folders, labeled, lined up—alphabetically, she instantly noticed—in a row. A dozen, maybe more. Each folder marked in Lillian’s precise handwriting on a stick-on label.
The label on the first file folder said BEERMAN.
Ella, on her knees, still holding up the trunk lid with one hand, reached in to pull out the folder.
If she was right? Everything would change.
66
“Check. It. Out.” Keefer’s whispery voice had that stoned sound. Kellianne could always tell when he was high. Instead of passing the joint to Kev, he gestured with it, out the windshield. “Freakin’ a. It’s working. All we have to do is wait.”
“No shit,” Kev said. “But what if—”
“I took the batteries out,” Keefer said. “So the alarms won’t go off. Cut the phone. And it’s getting snowy, no one can see out their windows. Till it’s too late.”
Kellianne leaned forward, her arms on the padded back of the front seat, talking around the headrests. “If you guys don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m gonna call the cops myself. Rat you out. I can do it, you know.”
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. The boys weren’t that much fun when they were high, and sometimes even got mad. And kind of ugly. “Ha ha, only kidding,” she said. “But really, I mean—”
“Little sister,” Kev interrupted. “We are the problem solvers. How do we keep five-oh from connecting us with the geezer in the Lexus? We gotta make sure they don’t know we were in the dead woman’s house. And how do we do that?”
Kev sucked on the joint again, then handed it to Keefer with a nod. “Go ahead, say it, bro.” He choked out the words to keep the smoke down.
“We get rid of the house,” Keefer said.
Kellianne blinked, trying to follow Keefer’s pointing finger. It was hard to see the house. Snow was falling and there were trees and shadows everywhere and a huge shrub right in their way. All she could see was the backs of their heads, the fogged-up windshield, the dark outline of the shrub, and snow.
Kellianne was so confused. “You can’t even see the house.”
“We’re watching for the—never mind,” Kev said. “Shut the hell up and go back to your coloring books.”
Kellianne tried to see what they were seeing, but the whole van was smoky inside. Whatever.
*
Jane made it halfway down the path, heading back toward her car. Stopped behind the huge bayberry bush, protected from the icing night and the bitter sting of cold. Something smelled funny. She glanced across the street, looking for chimneys, thinking maybe there were fires in fireplaces.
She turned, sniffing again, and listened hard, trying to untangle the soft whistle of the wind and the hiss of the falling sleet from whatever had stopped her.
She should try Ella one more time. Jane reached into her parka pocket for her phone, but it slipped out of her gloved hand and onto the snow-slick flagstone path.
“Damn.” As she turned to scoop up the phone, she heard the sound of shattering glass. Glass? It wasn’t the phone screen, it was much louder than that. She turned, following the sound. The side of the house. The basement window. Smoke. Pouring from the blown-out casement. Smoke.
She grabbed her phone, yanked off her glove, punched 911, wiping with a finger to keep the snow off the screen. She stuffed the glove into a pocket. Her hand was already freezing.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
Jane calmed her voice. She’d done dozens of stories about frantic 911 callers who delayed emergency response by incomprehensible terrified babble, talking too fast or leaving out facts.
“There’s a fire,” she said. “At twenty-seven Margolin Street.”
“Are you in Boston, ma’am? Fire?”
“Yes, fire.” It was all Jane could do not to shriek. She’d said fire, what was unclear about that? Oh, she was using her cell phone. The dispatcher had no idea where she was calling from. “Yes, Boston. A window’s blown out.”
“Are you outside, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes, I’m outside, but—”
“Is everyone else outside, ma’am?”
“Are you sending the fire truck?” Jane was losing it, fast. This was taking forever and she couldn’t figure out why the dispatcher sounded confused. There was nothing confusing. “It’s a fire!”
Jane turned back to the front door, clamping the phone to her cheek. The door might simply be open. She’d never tried the lock, but only knocked and tried the bell, assuming that Ella would have answered if inside. But what if something was wrong inside? Maybe Jane should have called 911 sooner.
And hoped they wouldn’t think it was Jane-who-cried-wolf.
“Ma’am? Repeating the address, th
at’s twenty-seven Margolin, Boston, correct? We’ve got some power lines down and—Hold on please. Don’t hang up.” Jane heard the dispatcher’s voice connecting with someone, probably alerting the fire department. Jane strained to hear as she banged on the door again.
“Ella! Ella!” She touched the doorknob. Cold, even through her glove she could feel it was cold. She turned it. It opened.
“Ma’am? I have equipment on the way. Again, confirming it’s Boston, twenty-seven Margolin Street.”
“Yes, yes,” Jane said. How many times did she have to—“A white house, red brick trim, driveway, white front door. I don’t know if anyone is still inside. They might be. Should I go look?”
“No, ma’am,” the dispatcher’s voice was louder now. Insistent. “No. Please walk away from the building. As quickly as you can. Now.”
Jane stood on the porch, looking through the open door. She saw the living room. All looked fine.
“Ma’am?” The dispatcher’s voice cracked through. “Do you understand?”
*
“Reports of smoke showing at two-seven Margolin,” the deep voice of the BPD dispatcher bristled over the two-way in Jake’s cruiser. “Any available units are requested to…”
Jake stared at the blinking lights of his dashboard radio for an instant. Had he misunderstood? That’s where he’d been heading.
“Repeating, any available units to two-seven Margolin Street. Reports of smoke showing at a structure. All units fire and police, all units near and clear, please report. We have a caller on hold, awaiting…”
Shit. Jake flipped up his wig-wags, switched on the siren, hit the gas.
“Brogan responding to the available-units call,” he said into the radio. “ETA is in one minute.”
“Copy that, Detective. One minute.”
He felt his tires fishtail on the slick pavement, eased them straight again, powered through a red light, and banged the final turn toward Lillian Finch’s house. Shit. Maybe Perl had gotten there first.
Or maybe someone had gotten to Perl. If it was Perl.
*
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 29