“What about Mrs. Swenson? Do you have the impression Ellen and her mother are close?”
“Much closer than she was with her late father. He died when she was still in elementary school.”
Betsy paused to measure another sheet of wrapping paper.
“You know,” she said, “the more we’re talking, the more I realize how much I’ve lost touch with Ellen over the last several years. Things like that scene in her kitchen make everything different, don’t they? They make you wonder.”
Opening her scissors slightly and positioning the sheet of paper between the blades, Betsy leaned forward into her task, neatly shearing the paper along an unseen line. Her expression formed a sharp contrast with the beaming Santas pictured on the wrap.
“I’ll let myself out,” Liz said, leaving Betsy to compose her face and her thoughts.
It was a short walk to the Newton Free Library—just across the City Hall Common. Kicking herself for failing to get a description of Lucy Gray, Liz walked between tall piles of plowed snow on the drive that crossed the City Hall property to the new and impressive library building. The last time she’d seen it, the statuary there—including a brass Eeyore beloved by children—was eye-catching. After the snowstorm of the night before, such landscape ornaments were only suggested by mounds of snow.
Fortunately, the library’s circulation desk was staffed by two men and a woman who had to be in her early twenties. Monica Phillips might be avoided.
Or maybe not. When Liz asked for Lucy Gray, the young circulation librarian directed her to the reference desk. Arriving there, Liz saw two names listed on the “ON DUTY” sign: Monica Phillips and Lucy Gray. The librarians wore name tags, too, so Liz posed her question to Lucy.
“I’m looking for a mixed bag of books,” she said, and listed the four books that she knew were Ellen Johansson’s favorites.
Automatically, Lucy began to input title and author of the first. She typed “trifles susan glasp” and then broke off her work. She glanced at Monica Phillips.
“Actually, I have another author I’m seeking. Would you see what comes up under ‘Liz Higgins’?”
Lucy looked at Liz. Then she seemed to make up her mind.
“I happen to know that first book you requested is on a book truck waiting to be reshelved,” she said. “If you’ll join me, we may be able to retrieve it.”
As the two reached the lobby near the circulation desk, Lucy said, “You’re the reporter Betsy called about, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Betsy told me Ms. Phillips is difficult, so I decided not to announce myself as a reporter. I’m glad you realized who I am.”
“I wanted to get away from the desk. It’s not that I particularly care what she thinks in the ordinary course of things, but I’ve really been on edge since Ellen went missing. I want to help Ellen, but I’ve been debating what to do about some information I have about her.”
“Do you think it’s germane to the case?”
“Absolutely. But I shouldn’t be sharing it. With a boss like mine, I could even lose my job if I do.”
The two reached the circulation area where Lucy made a show of looking over volumes on a book truck.
“Not here, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s already been shelved,” Lucy said. “Not here,” she said again, pointedly.
The pair walked away from the truck.
“When’s your coffee break?”
“In twenty minutes.”
“How do you take your coffee? I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot. Green Mercury Tracer.”
Liz drove down the long hill known as Walnut Street into the heart of Newtonville, one of the city’s seventeen village centers. Standing in shin-deep snow at an outdoor phone booth, she called the city desk and had the good luck of reaching Jared’s morning equivalent, an editorial assistant named E.A. Tenley. Liz said she was following a lead on the missing mom case and hung up the ice-cold phone before E.A. could ask for details. Then she purchased two tall cups of coffee at a place called Café Appassionata before driving the mile back to the library parking lot.
Lucy Gray was waiting for her. After the librarian got into the car, Liz drove over Heartbreak Hill and onto a residential side street, where she parked the car.
“I only have fifteen minutes,” Lucy said. “And I’m still debating whether I should tell you what I have on my mind.”
“I know. And I’m a complete stranger.”
“Well, not completely, fortunately. You see, Ellen and Veronica both spoke so highly of you. Veronica’s my goddaughter, you know. I promised her I’d do everything I could to find her mom. She told me someone else made the same promise: you.”
“If we work together, maybe we can both keep our promises. Look, I’m willing to take the heat for anything that might be against library policy. But you’ll have to tell me the nature of the information so we can find a way for me to be the culprit here.”
“It’s not just a problem with my boss. I see eye-to-eye with Monica Phillips on just about nothing else, but I share her views on this issue. All I can say is it has to do with the right of privacy, and our duty as librarians to protect that right for our patrons.”
“Am I correct in assuming you have access to information about Ellen’s reading, about the books she has taken out recently?”
Lucy turned her head and gazed out the window at the suburban scene. The view fogged over as she sighed and her breath reached the window glass.
In matching movements, each woman opened her car door and stepped into the cold air. Liz walked around the car and joined Lucy on the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry. I can’t answer that right now. You can’t imagine how sorry I am.”
“Maybe you can supply some other information instead. Do you know anything about your friend’s trip to New York? And do you have any idea who someone called Nadia is?”
“I thought I knew about the nature of the trip, but now I’m not so sure. Ellen could hardly talk about anything else. She was going to the city to meet Nadia for the first time. Ellen and Nadia have been writing to each other for twenty-one years, since they were thirteen years old. They were going to treat themselves to lunch in the Windows on the World restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. Ellen kept saying the view would be so great, they could almost see both of their homes from there.”
“Where is Nadia from? Do you know her last name?”
“She is from Jerusalem. No, I don’t know her last name, but I know her first language is Arabic. Although I gather Nadia’s English was good and the two wrote to each other in English, Ellen said she was learning some Arabic so that she could greet her friend in Nadia’s own language.”
“How conversant do you think she was in Arabic?”
Lucy stopped in her tracks.
“Shouldn’t we be saying ‘she is’ instead of ‘she was’? It’s not as if we know she’s dead.”
Liz flinched. “How fluent do you think she is?”
“I wish I knew,” she said. “I thought I knew. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Because of her library records?”
Lucy pulled her hood up, obscuring part of her face. “I shouldn’t have let on as much as I did. It’s not only that I’m such a staunch believer in this right to privacy,” Lucy explained, “but I don’t like what Ellen’s reading list suggests about her—and about her possible plans. It’s heartbreaking. And it makes me wonder if I knew my friend at all.”
Lucy’s chest and shoulders shook as she took in two quick breaths, like a child on the verge of sobbing. But she steadied herself.
Sometimes time and silence can serve as handmaidens to revelation. But neither moves at a lively pace. With her unvoiced question hanging in the air as tangibly as the breath she exhaled into the cold winter morning, Liz took Lucy’s arm and led her back to the car.
“Your coffee break is almost over,” Liz said. “When you’re ready to tell me more, let me know.”
Chapter 8<
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More snow was falling as Liz dropped Lucy off at the library. She trudged through it to use the phone booth on the premises.
“So, did you nab an interview with the grandmother?” Dermott asked her over the phone.
“No, Dermott, I didn’t, but I’ve been pursuing some other leads that came up.”
“Have they led to a story you can file tonight?”
“Not yet.”
“Then take this one and run with it,” Dermott said. “Seems some jogger called in from Newton and said he saw a couple of Arab guys at the Johansson door about an hour before the kid came home. Take this down. Guy’s a hairdresser. Calls himself P.D. Cue but his real name’s Paddy McCuddy. He’s probably a fuckin’ fairy.”
“Hey!”
“Ah jeez, don’t get all PC on me. Be glad you’re back on the missing mom story with a real lead after chasing shadows all day. Or was it playing elf? I hear you were wrapping presents with some gal all morning, on company time, no less! And you wanted to step out of features territory!”
“You have a number for the hairdresser?”
“Yeah, but I got better than that. He’s at his shop now. On Cue Hair Design, in Newton Upper Falls.”
“Say no more. That’s part of features territory. I know where it is.”
The hairdresser was no fairy, although he could charm the socks off every one of his mixed bag of customers. When Liz walked into his shop, he had two clients’ coiffures well under control.
“Just sit here for a few minutes, Miss Monroe,” he said to an elderly woman whose head was covered with old-fashioned rollers. Leading her to a seat under a hair dryer, he inquired, “Or may I call you Marilyn?”
“You can call me Norma Jean,” the woman replied, smiling broadly. “I reserve that name for my intimates.”
“I’m honored, Norma Jean,” the hairdresser said, bowing slightly. “OK, buddy,” he said, changing tone as he spoke to a mailman who had apparently shown up for a haircut during a lunch break. “Do you think the Celtics have a chance in hell of winning tonight?” he asked, as he fitted a plastic sheet around the mailman’s neck. “Do you have an appointment?” he said, turning to Liz. “I’m not sure if I have time to take a walk-in at the moment.”
“Actually, I’m here in response to your call to the Beantown Banner.” Liz held out her hand. “Liz Higgins” she said.
“Paddy McCuddy. I had to change the name for the shop. McCuddy’s Hair Design might make it in Dublin but it doesn’t cut it in this suburb.”
“Shame about that mother running out on her kid,” the mailman offered.
“What makes you think she ran out on her family?” Liz asked.
“They’re on my route. A mailman sees more than most people think.”
“Like what?”
“Well, there’s the deliveries we make, for one thing. There’s one household on my route keeps receiving pink envelopes. I’m not surprised to see the house went up for sale recently. They’re up to their ears in debt.”
“What about the Johanssons? Anything unusual there?”
“You bet. Lots of letters from the Middle East. All for the missus. She’s been receiving them for years. And he receives all kinds of insects. I don’t deliver them. UPS does. But I see them sitting on the stoop. Trusting household. Has a little card on the mailbox that says, ‘If we’re not home, please leave deliveries.’”
“What are the bugs for?” Paddy asked.
“Guy’s an eco-nut. I guess he releases them into the garden to eat other bugs. Seems like a waste to me. You open a box of ladybugs and who’s gonna tell ’em you paid for them so they better stay in your yard?”
“You got a point there,” Paddy agreed.
“I think it’s wonderful,” said “Miss Monroe.” “We need people like that to keep down the use of pesticides. Let some of the ladybugs fly into my garden anytime. They bring good luck, you know.”
“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children will burn,” the hairdresser said as he turned on the electric razor to trim the mailman’s neck hair.
“Name’s Len Fenster,” the mailman said loudly over the razor’s buzz.
“May I quote you about the Johanssons?” Liz asked.
“Yeah, sure. Don’t quote me on the dunning slips, though, will ya?”
“No problem.”
“That’s it, buddy,” Paddy said.
“What do I owe ya?”
“The usual.”
Paddy turned to his curler-covered customer and told her, “You need another ten, fifteen minutes, Norma Jean.” He turned the drier to high.
Over its airy hum, Liz asked him, “Have you spoken to anybody else about what you saw at the Johanssons’ house?”
“Sure. My wife. She’s the one who told me to call the Banner after they found blood in the house.”
“How about the World?”
“That rag! Nah.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this exclusive.”
“No problem. It was weird, though, to see two guys on the Johanssons’ doorstep on the day in question,” the hairdresser said, sounding like he fancied himself to be an actor in a TV-courtroom drama.
“Why?”
“They just didn’t fit in.”
“In what regard?”
“Well, they were Arabs, for one thing.”
“Surely some people of Middle Eastern extraction live in Newton.”
“Sure they do. I have one or two families who bring their kids for haircuts in my shop. But they live here. They don’t drive up to houses in big, jazzy cars without license plates and then stand around at people’s doors.”
“Are you saying there was no license plate on the car they arrived in?”
“That’s right. They drove up in a Crown Victoria with no plates. They looked pretty put out when nobody answered the door, I can tell you.”
“What do you mean by ‘put out’?”
“They were talking to each other a mile a minute. I couldn’t understand a word that they said. It must have been Arabic they were speaking. They were shaking their heads and talking away. Finally, they got in their car and drove off.”
“If you hadn’t heard about the apparent crime scene at the Johanssons’, do you think you would have thought their behavior was significant?”
“I think so. Like I said, they were out of place.”
Liz left the hairdresser and drove straight to the Johanssons’ street. She wasn’t keen on running herself but she knew enough joggers to be aware that exercise nuts are creatures of habit. Chances were good that one or more of the two o’clock joggers would pass by at the same time today.
It was 1:50 when Liz introduced herself to the first jogger on Fenwick Street.
“I would have been passing by then,” said a woman dressed in Olympic-quality running gear, “but I’d stopped to see the events on the City Hall Common. It was hilarious, I tell you! Until the little girl ran into the scene. Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
Liz interviewed six more runners before a pair of women had information to add.
“No plates on the car? I didn’t notice that,” the taller of the two said.
“But it would make sense!” her running partner exclaimed. “They probably forgot to put dealer plates on the car when they took it out.”
“Dealer plates?”
“Yeah, it was Sam Maksoud and his son at the Johansson house. I know them because I bought my car from them.”
“‘We always go the extra mile,’” the two women said in unison.
“Not us as runners,” the tall gal laughed in response to the puzzled look on Liz’s face. “The Maksouds. That’s the dealership’s motto.”
“Is that the dealership on Needham Street?” Liz inquired.
After the joggers nodded confirmation, Liz drove her Tracer straight to it.
“Yeah, I remember the lady,” Sam Maksoud said, waving Liz into a chair in his glassed-in office wi
th a view of the car showroom. “After the deal I gave to her, I’ll never forget her!”
“I’ve heard you’re doing some great price cutting for end of the season sales,” Liz said, remembering Tom Horton’s tip.
“That is true, but in Mrs. Johansson’s case it was a different story.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“You have met the lady, yes?”
Liz nodded.
“An attractive lady, with the berry-blonde hair. I would never have imagined she would know the niceties of our language, our Arabic ways. Nor did I think such a polite lady had it in her to bargain like that. She so charmed me that I took some big dollars off the price of her car.”
“How did she do that?”
“She arrived here in her husband’s car, not the one she wished to trade in. When I asked her about the other vehicle, she said it needed a repair and she didn’t want to put any more money into it. When the customer says that, we know the car is rather iffy, but, of course, our mechanics can fix most anything. It’s often a different story if the vehicle is not running. So I asked the lady, ‘Does it run?’”
“What did she tell you?”
“That’s when she surprised me. ‘Hamdu-lillah,’ she said.”
“What does that mean?”
“Thanks to God. For those words, I took another two thousand dollars off the price of her car,” he grinned. “That’s not all the story. It turned out the trade-in was truly on its last legs. That delightfully devious lady had it towed up the steep hill of Walnut Street and then drove it the last few blocks to my dealership, on the level road! I know, because she hired my cousin to do the deed!”
“You’re smiling! Didn’t that make you angry?”
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