Front Page Teaser lhm-1

by Rosemary Herbert

  “Did you observe this, or did the father tell you about it? And what happened to the girl?”

  “Oh, I was there, all right. But not before the father was laying into Ali verbally. It was his shouting that helped me locate the boy, who had been missing for about an hour. The girl was crying, but I had the impression she was more cowed by her father’s shouting than by Ali. The mother came running and whisked the girl away. The father was a big man. I remember thinking he was a big Swede when he told me his name. What was it?”

  “Swenson, Karl Swenson.”

  “That’s it! How did you know? And the girl’s name was Olga.”

  “No, that’s the wife. The girl was called Ellen.”

  “Yes, yes. You’ve got it! What makes you ask about this?”

  “I’ve been trying to find Ellen ever since she went missing a week ago, leaving behind her own little girl, a child called Veronica.”

  “Has this been in the papers? I’m afraid I only take the Times now. For the crossword puzzle. Don’t read the local papers much anymore.”

  “Yes, Dr. Mayhew, we’ve been covering it. And what you are telling me now is extremely helpful. May I ask, was Arabic Ali’s first language? And what brought him to your school?”

  “Right, on the Arabic. His mother brought him to the school, literally and, I suspect, figuratively, too. That is, her inability to handle him—his learning disabilities and speech impediment—and perhaps some over-severe discipline in her household administered by her or, more likely, by her husband—had made the boy unmanageable. Like all of our boys, he could not thrive in a typical public school. But his was a need for less rather than more discipline, along with lots of speech therapy and ESL.”

  “You mean English as a Second Language?”

  “Right again. We didn’t have those kinds of specialists on hand, unfortunately. And even if we had, it’s unlikely they’d have been proficient in Arabic. Still, perhaps they could have put to rest my question about how tongue-tied he actually was. When he was in trouble or agitated, he sometimes hummed or sort of mumbled. I had to wonder if he was doing the Arabic equivalent of a ‘Hail, Mary,’ if you know what I mean. That’s not a very politically correct way of putting it, but I mean sort of calling on his deity.” Dr. Mayhew shook himself. “Then again, he could have been mumbling a nursery rhyme, pop lyrics, or hurling out curses, for all anyone knew. His native language was a mystery to me.”

  “Do you remember him saying anything when he was being hounded by Mr. Swenson?”

  “Nothing specific. But it would have been typical for him to sort of clutch his hands around his knees and mumble while looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.”

  “What happened to him after the incident?”

  “We had to expel the poor bugger. I argued to the board that we should keep him on until a case was proven against him, but they nixed that. The school was in trouble financially and the board feared Swenson’s ire would be the last nail in our coffin. They thought he’d go to the press. As it turned out, Swenson went mum as soon as Ali left. It was a matter of a day or two before the boy’s parents came to collect him. As for his fate after that, I’m in the dark. I wrote down the name of a colleague at another school whom I thought might consider admitting Ali to his program, but I saw the boy’s dad stuff the paper I wrote it on into a trash bin before the family got into their car. All I can say is I hope Ali was able to put his ear to good use.”

  “His ear?”

  “He had perfect pitch. And he was clever, mechanically. Strange that a boy who faltered at speaking could sing like a lark. According to the music teacher, who came round once every two weeks, he could tell you what note you were playing just by hearing it. After Ali took apart our piano and fixed a broken key, the music teacher wanted to introduce him to a piano tuner he knew. He said the man was getting old and might take on an apprentice. But Ali was expelled before that could come to pass.”

  “Are you still in contact with the music teacher?”

  “I never see him, but his wife always sends me a Christmas card. This year was no exception. I remember noticing the address was different this year, but I didn’t save it. I never send Christmas cards. I just threw out the envelope.”

  “Do you remember anything about the address? Was it in Massachusetts, for instance?”

  Dr. Mayhew paused. “No, I don’t remember a thing about where it was. But I do remember thinking, ‘God forbid I ever have to live in a place called Harmony Haven. Appropriate for a music teacher, though, I suppose. You’ll want to know his name, of course. It’s Buxton, Clifford Buxton.”

  Regarding his book- and paper-strewn surroundings with an expression blending fondness and chagrin, he continued, “And that brings us to your question about resolutions and resolve. Most of my boys possessed neither. And what kind of mentor would I have been, in the unlikely event that any of them came up with resolutions? A very poor one, I’m afraid. Do you know how many times I’ve made the resolution to sort out this stuff? That number is on the verge of the infinite. But have I exercised any resolve? You tell me,” he said with a chuckle.

  As Liz stood up to leave, the doorbell rang. Embarrassed, she realized it was probably the Banner’s photographer. Despite having no forewarning, Dr. Mayhew cooperated in having his photo taken as Liz thanked him and rushed off to her car.

  In her car, Liz used her new cell phone to call the Newton police. Their public information officer confirmed the wallpaper stripping at Fenwick Street was done on their orders. The officer would neither reveal what the police had hoped to find nor what had spurred the authorities to strip the little girl’s room. Now that she thought about it, Liz realized that, while comforting Olga Swenson, she had failed to scrutinize Veronica’s bare walls. That was a missed opportunity but not overly worrisome, since she knew it was her own report that had inspired the strip search. And Liz also knew that Veronica’s request for the wallpaper was made only after she had asked a half-dozen Santas for every other gift she’d ever wished for.

  This last thought caused Liz to pick up her cell phone one more time. She would have to make this call quickly, since she had to get back into the heart of Boston to meet with the DYS girls.

  The phone rang several times before Tom’s voice—unaccompanied this time—announced, “Hi! You’ve reached Tip Top Paper Hangers. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”

  Until this afternoon, Liz only thought about Tom’s work in regard to his predictable appearances changing the displays on her billboard. But of course, he also worked hanging wallpaper in people’s homes. He would know where to find wallpaper with a Madeline motif, if anyone did. And—just perhaps—it wouldn’t be such a tragedy if the same pattern could not be found. Hadn’t Veronica asked Santa for new wallpaper?

  “Hi, Tom. It’s Liz,” she said into her phone. “I’ve just had a brainstorm and, oh, how I hope you can help me with it. Please call me as soon as possible.” She reminded him of her home phone number and announced her new cell phone number, too.

  Next, she phoned Olga Swenson’s residence, only to be greeted by an answering machine message there, too.

  “Mrs. Swenson, it’s Liz calling,” she told the machine, adding both telephone numbers. “I told you I would do my best about Veronica’s wallpaper and I have an idea to share with you. Please phone me at your first convenience.”

  As she was about to hang up, a male voice broke in on the line. It was Erik Johansson. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law is quite upset,” he said. “She told me you spent some time with her this afternoon, but little more than that.”

  “Did she tell you about Ellen’s reading list?”

  “A reading list? No. What about it? She seemed most overcome by the wallpaper stripping. I felt remiss that I didn’t forewarn her about the room. I never thought she’d stop by like that before I could mention it. The police said there was a report in the paper that Veronica was desperate to change her wallpaper so they came to
inspect it. When they didn’t find any rude words scrawled upon it or blood smears or whatever else they hoped to find, they took the next step and stripped it to see what was underneath.”

  “Please don’t hang up when I tell you this: I have to admit, that was my report—from the time when Veronica was evaluating the Santas—that called attention to the wallpaper. I reported that she asked the seventh Santa for new wallpaper because she’d already asked the other six for every toy on her wish list. It was a cute remark, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Unless there was something under the wallpaper.”

  “Was there?”

  “The police thought so.”

  “What was it?”

  They wouldn’t tell me, but whatever it was caused them to haul me into the station for another hour of inquisition.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. What was the nature of their questions?”

  “Are you sorry? Really? At this point, I don’t know what to think about you or about anyone else for that matter. Olga almost had me convinced you were an ally in finding my wife, and then she comes home utterly distraught after spending time in your company. Now you admit you’re the cause of the wallpaper fiasco.”

  “Please, Erik, allow me at least to lighten your load about the wallpaper problem. As you already realize, a large part of Mrs. Swenson’s agitation today has to do with the destruction of your daughter’s bedroom. It’s bad enough that the room has been wrecked, but then, at first glance, the fact that the paper pattern may not be available makes things even worse. But the key point is Veronica wanted Santa to bring her new wallpaper. Don’t you see, if the wallpaper is changed, she will believe it was Santa’s work!”

  “How would I know what paper she would like? And Veronica is going to be home in two days. Who would hang paper on New Year’s Eve Day or, worse yet, New Year’s Day itself, with no advance warning, in time for my daughter’s return home?”

  “I can’t promise anything, but please trust that I’m working on it. In the meantime, Mrs. Swenson might be a terrific help, in one regard. Do you think you could ask her if I’m correct in assuming Veronica is a fan of Wilbur, the pig, in the book Charlotte’s Web?”

  “I don’t need to ask her. I know the answer to that one. That is the book my wife was reading to Veronica before Ellen disappeared. Veronica fell in love with Wilbur. She made Ellen read the book to her three times.”

  “I know it’s a long shot, but please allow me to see if we can find Charlotte’s Web wallpaper and one of Santa’s elves to hang it for your very special little girl.”

  “Spare no expense. It’s an inspired idea.”

  Chapter 18

  Liz was a full twenty minutes late for her appointment with the DYS girls. Since the photographer had arrived, shot pictures, and left, Liz was left with the task of coaxing good quotes from the girls the photographer had chosen to focus in upon. It was often the case, Liz knew, that a striking face was a poor indicator of its owner’s talent with words. With females, especially, a less-than-stunning appearance was often a better predictor of verbal skills. With this in mind, and preoccupied with the more pressing desire to advance the Johansson investigation, Liz labored to appear enthusiastic about her subject. But then a young woman named LaShandra Washington called her on it.

  “Look. Do you care about talkin’ wit’ us or not? We been waitin’ on you to get your ass over here so we could tell you something that matters. You get what I’m sayin’?”

  “You’re being blunt with me, so I’ll be straight with you. I’ve got a little girl missing her mother, who disappeared from Newton last week.”

  “Boo hoo! We should care about some white-bread kid from a perfect home that turns out to be not so perfect? Some people know all about things that never gonna be perfect. But you people in the press, you never get it, do you? This is where the real stories are, in us kids whose moms is always missin’.”

  Liz looked LaShandra in the eye. “You have a point, LaShandra,” she said. “So what do you do about that? How do you keep going?”

  “Not by making smart-ass New Year’s resolutions, I can tell you.”

  “That’s right,” a couple of other girls chorused.

  “Then how?”

  “By kickin’ ass and tellin’ it like it is, that’s how!”

  “Kickin’ ass about what kinds of things?”

  “Abuse, for one thing,” LaShandra said. “Sex-u-al, verbal, e-mo-tional abuse. Abuse in every flavor. You mess with me, I kick your ass.”

  “That’s right,” the girls chorused again.

  What about telling it like it is? Who do you tell?”

  “Depends on what you’re tellin’. If your daddy mess wit’ you, you don’t go runnin’ to him, ’cept to tell him to go fuck hisself.”

  “That’s right!”

  LaShandra dropped her eyes and softened her tone. “I might tell Father James somethin’ like that. Get him to restrict the old man’s visits, you know what I mean?”

  “That sounds like a good idea. It also sounds like it would take courage,” Liz said.

  LaShandra paused. “It takes that. Yeah, you need courage. But you also need resolve. That’s it. Some things you can’t fix with one of your New Year’s resolutions. You got to have resolve.”

  Thanking her lucky stars that the photographer chose LaShandra as one of his subjects, Liz spoke with a few of the other girls, two of whom she recognized as contributors to the making of her afghan. On impulse, she took from her wallet a photo of Prudence preening herself on the afghan and gave it to them. Rough and tough as they were on the surface, they all dissolved into oohs and ahs as they passed the photo to one another. Only one of them seemed unmoved by the cat photo: a scrawny teen called Eleanor, a name that seemed far too big and old-fashioned for her. Liz made a mental note to seek out the reserved girl for a future report.

  Saying her good-byes to the young women and to Father James, Liz knew time was tight, lines were up, and Dermott McCann would be on the warpath when she arrived late. Thanks to the cell phone, she was able to call and say she was on her way in. But that didn’t do a thing to take the sting out of city editor’s wrath.

  “Where the hell’ve you been, Higgins?” the city editor demanded as soon as Liz approached his desk. “How are we supposed to get a paper out when we don’t know what you’ve dug up for us till after lines are up? Was it so difficult to come up with a freakin’ New Year’s resolution piece with a whole day to spare?”

  “I’ve got that and more, Dermott. I managed to get inside the Johansson house with the missing woman’s mother. The police have stripped . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What else is new?” He pointed to the television screen mounted above his head, over the city desk. Its volume was low, but the picture was clear. Standing in front of the Johansson house was Channel Six newsman George Sanders, expounding on the wallpaper stripping.

  “I hope, at least, you got a good look at the clue on the wall.”

  “What clue?”

  “I wish to hell I knew. Police aren’t saying. Hell, Higgins, you better wish you knew. You mean to tell me you were inside the house, inside the bedroom, and you didn’t see it?”

  “I saw a completely stripped room. No, I take that back. Three walls were stripped completely. The fourth was only partially stripped.”

  “Christ almighty, Higgins! Are you telling me you didn’t take a good look at that number-four wall? And why the hell didn’t you call for a photographer? Say something! Don’t just give me those puppy-dog eyes! Get the hell to your desk and file that New Year’s resolution story. I hope at least you’re good for eight inches on that!”

  As she wrote the story, Liz felt utterly deflated. It is a reality of the media wars that television journalists have a huge advantage over daily newspaper reporters. TV types could break news the same day as it happened, instead of delivering it the next morning. But Liz had lost more than the scoop here. If she had been on the ball, she
literally would have gotten the inside story and had more to report than the television people did, even if it appeared in the next day’s paper.

  Instead, she’d let her emotions get in the way of doing her job. No matter how much her heart went out to Olga Swenson, she did the woman no service by holding her hands instead of getting to the bottom of the mystery. Dick Manning had a point when he warned her it’s not a good idea to get emotionally involved with the people you meet in the course of reporting.

  And would she heed this advice tonight, Liz wondered, when dining someplace “rather special” with Cormac Kinnaird? Much would depend on the unpredictable mood of the good doctor.

  Although the clock was ticking towards her rendezvous with Cormac, she took the time to search the telephone database for Harmony Haven, Clifford Buxton, and Ali Abdulhazar. Finding the music teacher was as simple as whistling a happy tune. A Buxton, Clifford, was listed as residing on Liszt Lane in Bourne, Massachusetts. The street was probably one of several that composed a housing development known as Harmony Haven. But finding Ali was not so easy. Liz learned quickly that Arabic names are spelled with numerous variations, some phonetic and others reflecting the linguistic influences of those who militarily occupied, governed, or culturally influenced parts of the Arab world. Thus, Abdul might also be spelled in the French manner, Abdoul. And then there was the punctuation problem, which presented more variations, including Ab’dul and Abd’ul. Combine this with the rest of Ali’s last name and you had to search through variations such as Ab’dulhazar, Ab’dul-hazar, Abdoulhazar, Abdoul-hazar, and more. Add to this the fact that Ali is an extremely common Arab name, and Liz came up with hundreds of possibilities. Narrowing the search by age still left her with eighty-six possibilities in eastern Massachusetts alone, and Liz did not know if it was reasonable to assume Ali had remained in the area.