“Yes, I’m fine,” I groused. “It’s only a couple of bruised knees. I’ll survive.”
Feeling utterly mortified, I did a quick survey of the room. Resting on the coffee table was Aunt Tressa’s ancient cutting board—circa nineteen seventy-five—with a massive block of cheddar roosting on its center tile. Next to that was a sharp kitchen knife, along with three or four wedges of cheese that had been lopped off the mother lode, explaining the clop clop sounds I’d heard earlier. Two mugs of cocoa crowned with globs of melted marshmallow sat on either side of the board. Aunt Tressa and Darby had obviously been having a grand old time before I came charging through the door.
I wondered where Pazzo and Ringo had disappeared to, and was about to inquire when Aunt Tressa’s front window shade began pulsing with blue light.
Shoot! Shoot on an oyster cracker.
“Is that a police car?” Aunt Tressa bleated, stomping toward the door.
“Um, Aunt Tress, there’s something I have to tell you …”
Too late. The doorbell rang and she flung open the door. Two grim-faced police officers stood on the porch. One was positioned slightly behind the other, his hand poised over his nightstick. Both looked ready to do battle.
My aunt’s jaw dropped. Darby gave out a chuckle, but he had to do some fast talking to persuade the police not to haul him in for questioning. It took the three of us nearly twenty minutes to convince the zealous officers that my 9-1-1 call had been a false alarm. Aunt Tressa allowed them to do a walkthrough of her apartment. I was pretty much forced to do the same, since the call had originated from my home telephone.
It was almost quarter to nine when the officers finally drove off and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. I couldn’t help thinking what a fine giggle Chief Fenton was going to have when news of this little escapade reached his ears.
“Aunt Tress, I’m so sorry.” I slid a slice of comforting, calorie-laden cheddar into my mouth. “When you started playing ‘Help!’ so loud, I was sure you were calling for help!”
“That’s the tenth time you’ve apologized,” she said, setting down a steaming mug of cocoa on the table next to me. “I don’t want to hear it again. I shouldn’t have played that particular song, so we’re both at fault. Of course it’s the first song on the CD, so technically it wasn’t my fault either, but that’s neither here nor there. And Jack isn’t the least bit offended that you thought he was a crazed killer. Are you, Jack?”
Jack? What happened to Darby?
“No, ma’am, I certainly am not.” He shook his head, then looked at me and smiled, his cheeks flushing pink. “Fact is, I’m relieved to know you and Tressa look out for each other the way you do. It’s good to have family close by when you need them. Not everyone is so lucky.”
“What did you mean,” I asked my aunt, “when you told Dar—I mean, Jack, ‘we can work it out’?”
Darby gave out a knee-slapping roar. I shot him a glare, which unfortunately went unnoticed.
“We were discussing our favorite Beatles songs,” Aunt Tressa explained, a distinct sparkle in her eye. “Jack’s favorite is ‘Let it Be’ and—”
“—yours is ‘We Can Work It Out’,” I finished wearily. I’d known that since I was seven, of course. Why did it slip my mind tonight?
I wondered if Aunt Tressa had questioned Darby about Lil
lian. I certainly couldn’t ask her while he was still here.
“By the way, where are the cats?” I asked my aunt.
Aunt Tressa and Darby both laughed. “Over there.” My aunt pointed at the oversized hassock in the far corner of her living room. “When Jack set his jacket down on the hassock, they both scurried over and took possession of it. They’ve been there ever since.”
Sure enough, Pazzo and Ringo were stretched out on Darby’s flannel-lined denim jacket, looking as blissful as I’d ever seen them.
Darby’s face did that familiar flush. “I should explain. You see, I always keep a smidgen or two of catnip in one of the pockets. Works wonders when I’m doing repairs in a home that has cats. Keeps them happy and occupied, and out of harm’s way.”
I didn’t even try to make sense of that. What did he do in a home that had dogs? Rub raw liver on the linings of his pockets?
Minutes later I drained my cocoa mug and rose, my knees throbbing in protest. “I’m afraid this day tripper has had enough excitement for one evening,” I said, eliciting a chuckle from Darby. He made some comment about looking forward to seeing me again, but if it happened any time before the dawn of the fourth millennium, it would be entirely too soon for me.
Back in my apartment, I couldn’t wait to slip between the covers and sink into dreamland. But as I’d often heard, there’s no rest for the weary. One glance at the blinking red light on my answering machine told me that I had two new messages.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
From the journal of Frederic Dwardene, Saturday, November 25, 1950:
I visitedWhalie’s Jewelers in Manchester today. How mobbed it was with Christmas shoppers! Oh, they had so many wonderful things I wanted to buy for Dora! In particular was a shining topaz pendant that hung from a dainty gold chain. I have already imagined it nestled above her collarbone, its golden facets dancing in the light. On a whim, I purchased it. I plan to present it to her on Christmas, just as surely as I will portray her wearing it in the painting …
Please be Lillian, please be Lillian …
The mantra chimed through my head like a scratched vinyl record as my finger stabbed the message button. But it wasn’t her. It was someone I absolutely, positively, definitely didn’t want to hear from. “When were you going to tell me about Lillian?” the male voice barked into my machine. “Call me when you get in.”
No preamble, no greeting. Not even a phone number. The fact that we’d once had a relationship was apparently supposed to mean that his number was tattooed on my hand.
Then the second message came on—a kinder, gentler version of the first. “Apple, I’m sorry. It’s Daniel. I can’t believe how rude I just sounded. I … Paul Fenton called me this afternoon and asked if I’d seen or heard from Lillian. I couldn’t believe it when he told me she’s been missing since yesterday. Will you give me a buzz when you get in? Please?” This time he left his phone number.
Not that I needed it, since it was tattooed on my hand. Or at least on the inside of my brain cavity.
I should have known Paul Fenton would call Daniel. They’d gotten to know each other when Daniel was helping Lillian through the aftermath of her cat ordeal. After news of the nineteen cats she’d been housing in her trailer became public, she’d begun receiving all sorts of harassing, even threatening calls. Local news columnists labeled Lillian a “hoarder” and a “collector,” displaying no empathy for her plight. Neighbors pointed fingers at her and snickered behind her back.
I sorely wished that even one of those critics could have seen the terror in her eyes that day. The terror as she watched us collect the cats, one by one, and load them into carrying cages. The terror of believing her beloved babies were all going to be “executed.” Her kitchen cabinets, we discovered, had been well stocked with food for the cats but almost nothing for herself. Lillian had been subsisting on cheap bread and boxed macaroni dinners so the cats could eat well.
Thinking about it made me angry all over again, so I forced it out of my head. My problem at the moment was Daniel. Did he seriously think I was going to call him?
My pulse was doing the Daytona 500 when I punched in his number. He answered on the first ring.
“Apple? Thank God you called! I was beginning to think something had happened to you, too.”
Was he fishing? Trying to find out if I was with someone?
“It’s only a little after nine, Daniel. And believe it or not, I do have somewhat of a life.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little out of sorts.” His tone softened. “It’s really good hearing your voice again, App.”
&nb
sp; About a thousand responses chased each other around my tongue, but I swallowed them all back. “So, Chief Fenton called you about Lillian.”
After a moment’s silence he said, “Yeah. He called my office this morning and asked if I’d heard from her. Then he told me what happened at that old mansion on Saturday. I didn’t realize your aunt was a close friend of the victim.”
I’m out of the loop, he was trying to say, and all my guilt feelings came flooding back.
Since I was sure Fenton had put his own twist on the story, I gave Daniel my version of that horrible afternoon. I hadn’t realized how much I’d bottled it up inside. I must have chattered for a full ten minutes before taking a breath. When I was finished, a sense of relief washed through me, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.
“How is your aunt taking Lou Marshall’s, um, death?”
“She’s doing okay.” More than okay if the events of this evening were any indication.
“So you think Lillian might have seen the murderer?”
“I feel sure of it, Daniel, and that’s what’s scaring me. I’m terrified that someone might have hurt her, or—” I couldn’t finish the thought. It was too unthinkable. “What exactly did the chief say to you?”
Daniel sighed. “Not a whole lot. I think he was hoping I knew where she was. Anyway, he told me how you and your aunt found her door open yesterday. At the time, he didn’t think foul play was indicated. But I got the distinct feeling he’s been seriously rethinking that opinion. He also told me you’ve been bugging the beans out of him about her disappearance.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” I snapped.
“Darned right I would be! You’re preaching to the choir, Apple.” Then, more quietly, “By the way, how’s Elliot? Fenton said you took him home with you.”
“He’s fine, and he adores Cinnie. They’re actually pretty crazy about each other.” An uncomfortable silence followed—a silence that hugged my heart in a death grip. I broke it by asking, “When was the last time you talked to Lillian?”
“Oh, let’s see, I want to say about a month ago? I try to call her every four or five weeks. If I’m in the area I usually pay her a visit, but I haven’t done that in quite a while. It’s a bit of a hike from Goffstown. As you know, I don’t get to Hazleton as much as I used to.”
As you know …
He was obviously trying to lay a humongous guilt trip on me. Even worse, it was working.
“Daniel, did Fenton tell you about the napkin we found on the floor in Lillian’s trailer?”
“No. He basically gave me an abbreviated version of everything. I think he was hoping I might have heard from her. When I told him I hadn’t, he didn’t seem inclined to want to linger on the phone. But never mind that, tell me about the napkin.”
I described the crumpled napkin Aunt Tressa had found on the floor near Lillian’s sofa.
“Darla’s Dine-o-Rama,” he mused. “I think I’ve heard of it, but I can’t remember exactly where it is. Do you think it’s important?”
“I’m not sure, but I can’t help thinking that whoever is responsible for Lillian’s disappearance might have dropped the napkin.”
For several seconds Daniel was silent. Soft clicking noises filtered through the phone. “Daniel, are you there?”
“Got it,” he said. “Darla’s Dine-o-Rama. It’s on Route One Twenty-One in Hampstead.”
“Are you on the Internet?”
“Yup. Doesn’t look like it has a website, though. It’s probably a small mom-and-pop type of place.”
“Thanks for looking it up, Daniel,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that knowing where the Dine-o-Rama was located was all that critical. I was more interested in knowing who’d dropped the napkin. I also wished I’d had the foresight to hang on to Lillian’s house key before Aunt Tress and I locked up her trailer.
Then I remembered something.
I knew I had to be crazy for doing this, but I couldn’t stop myself. If there was even a chance we might find something that would lead us to Lillian …
“Um, Daniel? Don’t you have a key to Lillian’s trailer?”
“Actually I do. She gave it to me in case there was ever an emergency or … well, a problem. She was still getting some of those wingnut phone calls—which is partly why she gave up her land line—and they worried her a lot. In fact, she told me she’d started sleeping with her cell phone in her pajama pocket, just in case she had to call for help real fast.”
I felt my stomach lurch. The thought of an eighty-somethingyear-old woman going to bed in fear every night sickened me.
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Daniel said, the animation in his tone unmistakable.
Unfortunately, I was. The idea that Lillian’s worst fear might have come true trumped my own issues with Daniel.
“Maybe we’d better use your key.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From the journal of Frederic Dwardene, Thursday, December 7, 1950:
Oh, but my Dora is the dearest, most beautiful creature on earth! Once again, she looked terribly sad when she came into the bank, but I immediately took her under my wing. Politely, I inquired if she’d heard from her young soldier. It was too soon, of course, for her to have received a letter, but I carefully dropped a hint as to the ease with which a soldier acquires other interests after he leaves home. (Oh, I was wickedly clever!) At first she looked stricken, but I instantly soothed her by saying I was sure her particular soldier wasn’t like that. But the seeds of doubt had been planted. Here’s the best part: after only a little coaxing, I persuaded her to have lunch with me on Saturday. It will simply be a friendly lunch at a respectable establishment, but it is a beginning …
I hated to admit it, but being inside Daniel’s Crossover again felt heavenly. Waves of hot air blasted out of the little Suzuki’s heater vents. The melancholy notes of a John Coltrane classic sifted softly through the speakers.
Nestled in the passenger seat, I closed my eyes for a few blissful moments. Not for the first time, I wondered if I’d been insane to break off with Daniel, a man who was the total opposite of my dad. Over the years I’d learned to love Vincent Mariani, in spite of his abandoning me in favor of an unencum
bered life. When the going gets tough, men like Dad hightail it to Vegas.
But at least I’ve always known where he was, which is more than I can say about my mother.
As for Daniel—he’d hack off his own legs with a butter knife before he’d abandon his or anyone else’s child. He was one of the most responsible, kind and caring men I’ve ever met.
I suddenly had to remind myself why I ended the relationship. From the moment we’d met, wedding bells had been chiming in Daniel’s head.
Our relationship had been way too intense, and way too fast, and way too overwhelming.
“You warm enough?” He reached over and adjusted the heater.
I sneaked a look at him. At thirty-three, Daniel was a year younger than I. He wore his sandy hair in the spiky, gelled-up style the young guys sported these days. In Daniel’s case, it made him look about twelve. He still wore the rimless eyeglasses that I’d always thought framed his gray-blue eyes perfectly. Something warm and mushy swirled inside me.
“I’m fine,” I said, but only after he caught me studying him. “Your car always did heat up fast.”
I immediately wished I’d phrased that differently. Why couldn’t I think before I spoke?
The turn into Lillian’s trailer park jerked me back to reality. The access road had been roughly plowed, but was still a mass of icy lumps. Daniel drove slowly, careful not to let the little car skid.
Up ahead, Lillian’s pitch-dark mobile home came into view. My throat tightened as Daniel parked in front of the trailer and shut off his engine. When he turned toward me and reached out his hand, I immediately stiffened. “Excuse me, I want to grab my flashlight,” he said.
He’d been aiming for the glove box, not for me. I’d completely overreacted.
My knees still sore from my floor bounce at Aunt Tressa’s, I swung my legs out of the car. Almost instantly, I felt Daniel’s strong grip lift me upward. My first instinct was to pull away, until I realized I was standing on a sheet of ice. “Be careful here, it’s treacherous,” he cautioned. With his other hand he flicked on his flashlight.
We made it to the front steps without either of us falling, which was trickier than I’d imagined. Daniel unlocked the door and we both stepped inside.
He swung the beam of his flashlight around in an arc. Then he found the wall switch and snapped it on. The overhead light in Lillian’s narrow kitchen sprang to life.
“It feels like a meat locker in here,” Daniel said, turning off his flashlight. He snapped on a nearby table lamp, then located the thermostat and peered at it. “Good God, it’s fifty-eight degrees.”
“She must turn it way down at night,” I offered.
“Even at night, fifty-eight is too cold for an elderly woman.” Frowning, he glanced around. “Okay, where should we start?”
“If someone dragged Lillian out of here in the middle of the night,” I said, “it had to be against her will. Maybe the kidnapper left something besides a napkin.”
“I’ll take a thorough look around this room and the kitchen,”
Daniel said, snapping on his flashlight again.
I rubbed my arms. “I’ll start in the bedroom.”
Daniel shot me a nervous smile. “I’m glad we decided to do this. It was a good idea.”
But I wasn’t so sure anymore. Now that we were here, the idea of rummaging through Lillian’s personal belongings seemed like a horrible invasion of her privacy. “Thanks,” was all I could manage.
In Lillian’s bedroom, I turned on the frilly lamp that rested on her night table. The room looked exactly as Aunt Tressa and I had left it. My heart squeezed when I saw the thin blanket atop her bed, all tangled in the lovely afghan that I was sure Lillian had knitted herself.
I started by lifting her pillow off the bed. Nothing lay beneath it. Nor was anything hidden under the mattress.
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