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by Rosemary Herbert

  “I don’t like relying on a lead time of only a week or so. Fortunately, I wasn’t planning to give them the information at this stage anyway.” Liz set down her espresso and picked up her unfinished single malt. Raising it to her companion she took a long sip, and then blew Cormac Kinnaird a kiss across the small table.

  Cormac’s response was steely. “You know, you should report what you know to the police, Liz. Failure to turn over evidence that one knows might be useful to the solution of a case amounts to obstruction of justice.”

  “But we don’t know if it’s important until we get back the results. Surely, we don’t have to share this information until we know if it is significant.”

  “That sounds like a good argument to the layperson, but are you willing to put that to test in court? You’d be up for a seven-to-fourteen–year prison sentence. And even if you got off on some remarkable technicality, no police department would ever be willing to work with you again. That would spell disaster for your career.”

  “Not to mention yours. Oh, Cormac, I don’t want to hand this over to the police at this point.”

  “But you do want to know what happened to Ellen?”

  “Of course, but I want to know first, before anybody else. Do you think the police would share information with me first if I hand over the cigarette butts?”

  “You are green at hard news reporting, aren’t you? They might, but I wouldn’t count on it. Even your having the poinsettia in your possession is enough to get you in trouble. The only thing that keeps you from being in hot water on that one is that Erik apparently gave it to the aftercare teacher. I’ll be interested to learn why it was not sprayed with luminol by the police. I’m afraid, Liz, you’ll have to count on our advantage in getting DNA results back from the teaching lab.”

  Avoiding Liz’s eyes, he signaled the waiter for the check, paid it with a flourish, and led Liz to the coatroom. There, he helped her into her raincoat, and allowed his hand to linger on her back as he escorted her down the stairs. On the lower landing, he pulled her around to face him and surprised her with a lingering kiss. Then, taking her hand, he led her into the cold and blustery night.

  As the pair rounded the corner onto Mt. Auburn Street, Liz’s cell phone interrupted their progress—in every sense of the word—with a piercing ring.

  “I’m so sorry, but I think I should answer it. It might be Olga or Erik.”

  But it wasn’t.

  “Tom!” Liz exclaimed.

  “I know it’s late but you seemed so desperate to hear from me,” Cormac heard Tom’s voice say, as he leaned closer to Liz.

  “I’m outside and it’s freezing. Will you be findable mid-morning tomorrow?” Liz asked.

  “I can be at your door at dawn if you like—or earlier,” Tom said. “But I have a billboard to hang. So I’ll have to leave by about 10:00 a.m.”

  “Tell him you’ll be there,” Cormac said, revealing he’d heard it all. “I won’t darken your door tonight. I’m shattered.”

  Chapter 19

  “It’s not a Banner day,” Liz told Prudence when the cat nudged her awake on December 27. As she turned over in bed, she realized she had a mild headache. Since she was not scheduled to work, the day was hers, to use as she liked. That meant she could lie in bed, at least for a little while, and nurse her headache while speculating on its source. Did it stem from too much single malt and wine? Did it result from the fact that she’d have to turn over her ace in the hole to the police? Or was it founded on frustration with Cormac Kinnaird’s mixed signals?

  Then again, if this was a tension headache, it might have a much more profound cause. After all, now Liz felt convinced that the New York City cabdriver had visited—and been injured in—Ellen’s kitchen. And, she reminded herself, Ellen had been injured, too, as was certain from the blood found on the cookie ingredients. If she turned over the evidence to the police, the discovery she had hesitated to reveal would land her a scoop. But Kinnaird still had the bag of evidence. She wouldn’t let on to the city desk until late afternoon. That would leave her free to find Cormac, follow up on some lines of inquiry, and look for Veronica’s new wallpaper, too, if time allowed.

  With all this in mind, Liz decided not to catch a few more winks, even though it was 6:00 a.m. Instead, she got up and threw on some jeans and a turtleneck, boots, and a jacket, and drove to Rella’s Italian Bakery, where she purchased a good-sized square of crumb cake, a loaf of bread, and bacon, eggs, and milk from the dairy case. She also bought copies of the Banner and World at a newsstand. Back at home by 6:30, she took another half-hour to shower and dry her hair before phoning Tom.

  “I hope you meant it when you said you’d like to come over early,” she said.

  “Course I meant it.” Tom’s groggy voice was evidence she’d woken him, but he didn’t complain.

  “I can offer you bacon, eggs, and crumb cake as soon as you can get here.”

  “Give me three-quarters of an hour.”

  Next, Liz phoned the Ali Abdulhazar of Randoph, hoping to catch him before the start of the business day. The woman who answered spoke only Arabic. Although Liz could not understand a word she said, the woman’s anger came through loudly and unmistakably. Next, Liz phoned Erik Johansson, hoping to catch him before he set off to work. The phone answering machine picked up, this time with a recording of Erik’s voice stating, “You have reached the Johansson home. Please leave as long a message as you need to. This machine will not cut you off. If you have information about my wife, Ellen Johansson, be assured I will check this machine frequently.”

  As Liz began to speak, Erik cut in and said, “You start your work day early! I’m not sure. . .”

  “I have important news, Erik, and would like to deliver it in person before I report on it for tomorrow’s paper.”

  “News of Ellen?” The note of desperate hopefulness in his voice was unmistakable.

  “If you mean, ‘Is there any sign of her?’—no. I’m terribly sorry. But I have a lead about the altercation in the kitchen.”

  “Can’t you tell me about it now?”

  “I’d rather tell you in person.” Liz hoped Erik would consent to meet at his home where she might convince him to give her a peek into Veronica’s room, but he insisted they meet at his workplace at 10:00 a.m.

  Next, Liz called Clifford Buxton. Against background jazz, the music teacher’s message announced that he and his wife were out of town but would check messages now and then. Liz left one, then filled the coffee maker and laid bacon on her frying pan. By the time Tom arrived ten minutes later, the little house beside the turnpike was filled with the smell of breakfast cooking.

  “Coffee smells good,” Tom said, wiping his feet on the doormat. “Bacon, too. I sure could use some.”

  “It’ll taste even better with this crumb cake,” Liz said, laying out plates and cutlery for two on a tongue of countertop that served as an eating bar. When the eggs were cooked, the pair sat on high stools and dug into the breakfast.

  “Do you mind?” Tom said, as he sopped up egg yolk with the crumb cake.

  “Not a bit,” Liz said, doing the same. As he bent over his plate, Liz noticed with a feeling of tenderness, that Tom’s freckled nose was windburned. Then she told him about her wallpaper fiasco and the scoop that she’d rather have kept quiet until DNA evidence was available.

  “At least the scoop will rescue your reputation at the Banner,” Tom smiled. “And I think we can rescue Veronica’s bedroom situation, too. If we can get our hands on the paper you want, I could hang it over the weekend.”

  “You realize it’s the holiday weekend?”

  “Sure. But my heart goes out to that kid. Do you have a Yellow Pages?” He circled ads for three wallpaper outlets. “These have the largest stock around. We’ll call them first. Let’s have the White Pages for Boston.” Tom flipped through the book. “We’ll try this place, too. It’s a kids’ furniture place really, but it has a small decorating department for upholstery a
nd wallpaper. The paper selection is small, but it’s all for kids. Lot of French imported wallpaper, but it’s worth a shot. If these places don’t have the paper in stock, we can call the warehouse. It’ll cost, but the warehouse can send paper by overnight mail if they have it. The important thing is to identify the pattern and the company. I’ll have to get in and measure, too.”

  “I was hoping that would be necessary.” Liz cut Tom a second square of crumb cake and poured them both more coffee. “If you meet Erik, don’t let on how well we know each other. Let’s let him assume you are the first or only decorator who would consent to work on the holiday weekend.”

  “No problem. I’d give you the World, and you know it, Liz,” Tom smiled, handing her a copy of the Banner’s competing newspaper. “This one’s easier to read,” Tom winked, opening the tabloid Banner. “You got anything in the paypuh today?”

  “Yeah, my New Year’s resolution piece. Nothing about Ellen, I’m sorry to say. But that doesn’t mean Dick Manning hasn’t gotten something on the case.”

  “It’s too early to make those calls about the wallpaper, so how about I help you check out these papers? You need more room to spread out that paper. Come on.” Tom took her hand and led her to the sofa. Once she was seated, he pushed a footstool in place for Liz’s feet, turned on the Christmas tree lights, realized the tree needed watering and took care of that, and, finally, topped up their mugs with coffee and delivered them to the coffee table. Settling in next to Liz on the sofa, he patted her thigh before licking his thumb and turning the pages of the Banner with an earnest flourish. Smiling at him, Liz realized her headache was old news.

  “Hey, I see the Red Sox manager resolves to win the World Series this summer,” Tom laughed, reading Jared Conneely’s sidebar.

  “Hope springs eternal, I guess. Are you a Sox fan?”

  “Yeah, sure. But I never know if that means I’m a loyal guy or a loser.”

  “Not a loser,” Liz said, giving him a quick kiss.

  “I guess not! Come spring, I’ll have to take you out to a ballgame.”

  “‘Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,’” Liz sang and then broke off as the phone rang. Setting aside the World, she crossed the room and picked up the phone.

  “Liz Higgins? This is Clifford Buxton returning your call. You have a question about my former student Ali Abdulhazar? How may I help you?”

  Liz outlined her progress on the case and her reasons for finding Ali.

  “I haven’t kept in touch with Ali over the years. It’s been a long time so there’s no telling if this will be helpful, but I do remember Ali took up as an apprentice piano tuner with Jan Van Wormer after he left the alternative school. The kid had a wonderful ear. Perfect pitch. And an aptitude for fixing things. Troubled home life, though, and a speech impediment. No get-up-and-go, no initiative. I don’t know if he’d stick with a job for any length of time. Van Wormer was no spring chicken all those years ago. If he’s living today, he’ll be in his nineties, I’d guess. But he worked out of South Boston back in the 1970s.”

  “This is very helpful,” Liz said, picking up the Yellow Pages. “Do you recall anything about Ali getting in hot water with the Swenson family?”

  “Those people across the road? I wasn’t there the day that happened. I only worked at the Wharton School two days a week. But I was there the next day when Ali was hauled in with his parents before the director, the chairman of our board, and the faculty. Douglas Mayhew—he was the headmaster—let on he wanted to cut the kid some slack. I think he was hoping the board would buy a good explanation accompanied by an abject apology. But Ali always clammed up under pressure—and I had the impression he was terrified of his parents. All he managed to say, with lots of mumbling in Arabic and stuttering on the ds was, ‘I’m not sorry because I duh-duh-duh-didn’t duh-duh-duh-do that duh-duh-duh-disgusting thing.’ His father shut him up with some sort of command in Arabic before the poor kid could say anything more in his own defense.”

  “We’re in luck!” Liz said. “There’s a Van Wormer Piano Workshop listed in the phone book. Thank you for your help.”

  Before Liz could dial the number, the phone rang again.

  “I am speaking with Mizz Higgins?” an Indian-accented voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Ali Kumar, proprietor of Ali’s Music Shack. How may I be of service?”

  So, the owner of Ali’s Music Shack was not the right man. On the off chance that the shop owner knew Ali Abdulhazar of Randolph, Liz inquired about this, only to have the music man take offense.

  “So, you are thinking every person named Ali must know every other person of the same name?” he said angrily. “You should be knowing not every Ali is an Arab!” he added, hanging up.

  “Well, well, well,” Liz mumbled, as she dialed the piano workshop, only to hear the elderly owner’s answering machine message, backed with piano scales. When she tried to leave a message, she found the voice mail was full. She added the piano man’s South Boston address to a reporter’s notebook labeled “Johansson Contacts.” The same notebook also held the phone number of the taxi garage in New York City. Liz was in better luck calling that number, as Jake’s unmistakable voice came on the line. Liz asked if his driver, Samir Hasan, had shown up.

  “Nah! Hasan’s still AWOL,” he said. “Sonovabitch. Hey, listen, I got my hands full here. Hang on a minute.”

  Liz heard him harangue a driver for being late.

  “The reporter at work,” Tom said, standing up and delivering her coffee mug to her. He pointed to the clock, gave her a kiss on the top of her head, and said, “I’ve got a job to go to. I’ll make those calls about the wallpaper. You have enough to do. I’ll call you later.”

  “I got a helluva lot to do here,” Jake complained over the line. “But I took my valuable time to drive to the Brooklyn address he gave me. I already knew it was a wild goose chase, but I had to be sure. Street is there but the house numbers stop at 249. Hasan listed his address as number 270.”

  Liz blew a kiss to Tom as he left and asked Jake a few more questions about how long Hasan had worked for him and about the driver’s work habits, scribbling all the while in her notebook. Hanging up and slapping the notebook shut, she remembered she had not phoned Florissa’s Gift Emporium, so she found the number and made the call, only to have the manager confirm that she’d sold a teacup and saucer manufactured by Royal Doulton on the day in question. The manager could not identify the specific china pattern. Disappointed, Liz collected the breakfast dishes, ran water over them in the sink, put out dry food and fresh water for Prudence, and turned off the Christmas tree lights.

  Snow was falling as Liz made her way to the offices of Environmental Solutions in Lexington. Housed in a brown-stained, wood-shingled building, the offices were fronted by an unusual parking lot, pocked here and there with small circular grates.

  “They’re to collect the runoff. Instead of pouring it down the city sewer, for three seasons, at least, we use it in the waterfall you see on that rock face,” Erik explained as he showed Liz into the building. “Of course, the waterfall is not in operation during the winter, but the rest of the year it serves to aerate and help purify the water before we siphon some off to our various projects.”

  “Such as?”

  “We’re working on designing eco-friendly dishwashers and clothes washing machines. The water gets used again as we test the prototypes. Saves us plenty on our water bill, I can tell you.”

  Erik delivered this information with practiced ease, but his eyes told another story. They were heavy with sleeplessness. As soon as Liz was in his office and the door was closed, he urgently asked her, “What is the news you have about blood in my kitchen?”

  When she told him the blood type evidence suggested a stranger had been injured there, Erik put his head down on his desk and moaned. Over his sunken shoulders, Liz noticed a family portrait pinned to the wall. It was drawn in crayon and signed “VERONICA” in the awkward
printing of a very young child. Labeled with the words, “MOMMY,” “DADDY,” and “ME,” three crayoned figures were drawn holding hands and wearing huge smiles. A slight yellowing of the paper and drawing skills that spoke of a child much younger than Veronica’s current age made it clear Veronica had drawn this some years ago.

  Erik lifted his head. “My God, Ellen!” he exclaimed, as if to his wife. “What happened to you?” Turning his attention to Liz he said, “I had hoped that second person was someone known to us, not a stranger. I’ve been praying that she cut herself cooking, that she wasn’t attacked! Who would have done this?”

  “I have to tell you, Erik, we know whose blood it might have been. Do you or Ellen have any connections with a New York taxi driver known as Samir Hasan?”

  “Absolutely not. I never heard of the guy. Who is he? What was this guy doing in my kitchen?”

  Erik was almost as mystified when Liz told him about Ellen’s recent note on Veronica’s emergency information card, warning the aftercare teachers not to allow her daughter to take a ride from a taxi driver. “After she came home from meeting her pen pal in New York, she mentioned something about a strange taxi ride,” he said. “But at the time I didn’t think it was significant. The city is full of kooks. I was more concerned about the fire she escaped in the Windows on the World Restaurant.”

  Erik filled Liz in on the fire and he added, “I was so relieved that turned out okay that I didn’t pay much attention to the calls we received in the middle of the night. I just thought they were prank calls, so I hung up after the third one and turned the phone’s ringer down so we wouldn’t be bothered by any more of them.”

  “What did the caller say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did Ellen answer any of the calls?”

  “No. It’s better to have a man answer, don’t you think, when the phone rings unexpectedly in the night?”

  “Did you often receive annoyance calls?”

  “No. I can’t remember when we last had any unidentified people call us. So, this was odd, to say the least. I guess because we didn’t see ourselves as targets of a nut, we didn’t worry. Or, at least, I didn’t worry. Now I wish I’d kept the caller on the line, tried to draw him out to say something.”