by Ruth Parker
“Bullshit later,” Underwood said, rubbing where his shoulder had connected with the wall. “You think because you’re the old sheriff’s son that counts for something? You write your little books that the snobs in Quantico drool over. None of that means shit to us guys who work on the line. Honest guys who work the line. Guys like us who actually follow the rules.”
“Later,” Fletcher repeated in a voice so calm and quiet, it stunned Underwood more than the yelling and shoving. “Come on,” Fletcher said to Laurel. He led her out the door.
She could hear Underwood ranting as they made their way through the morgue back to the elevator. What had Underwood meant when he said honest guys like him? Fletcher hadn’t mentioned why he didn’t work at the FBI anymore. She didn’t want to know what sort of scandal Fletcher was involved in; if it had been bad enough to get him fired, then it must have been bad.
Fletcher didn’t say anything until they were up on the ground floor. She relished the weak, gray daylight coming in through the windows—it was much better than being in the basement-level morgue where there was no light and no hope. She realized she was still holding onto his hand. She took her hand away from his, feeling a pang as the warmth and comfort began to fade.
“We need to talk,” he said to her.
“I know,” she said, walking quickly towards her lab. She was reacting on instinct, fleeing and trying to retreat into the familiarity of her work. “But I have to run the toxicology. We need a cause of death. You saw it. They had a heart attack. I’ll run the blood first, see what I get. We were able to get quite a lot of that dried substance from inside the teapot.” She was nervous, rambling, but she knew if she could just get into the lab, she could make things right. She could run the tests, she could help. She needed to help.
She owed it to her sister.
Fletcher followed Laurel down the hallway. She was half-mad with a manic, panicked energy. The autopsy had upset her, but she wouldn’t slow down long enough to admit it. She swiped her key card at the door of the lab and he followed her inside. “Someone else can do the tests,” Fletcher said. “I need you to go over the case files.” He already knew that she’d been holding back on something—and after that little episode in the autopsy room, he knew it was something big.
“I have to do the tox screen,” she said again. “It’s still early. I might be able to get something. If the girls had heart failure, it was most likely benzodiazepine overdose. Either that or opioid overdose, except there wasn’t stomach bleeding or vomiting, which is common with that. If I can isolate the compounds—”
“Stop,” he said. She was talking fast, walking fast, trying to make it to the locker room where she could tell him to get lost because she had to change clothes. He took her arm and yanked her back, close to him. He could feel her body trembling. He was possessed by a strong, sudden desire to pull her against him, to wrap his arms around her. That was a crazy idea, mostly because she was crazy. She obviously had all sorts of issues stemming from her inability to process her childhood trauma. He pivoted, blocking her way down the hallway. He looked at her in the eye. The second their eyes met, she flicked her gaze down to the ground.
“I need to get to work,” she said, looking up at him. Fletcher knew that she didn’t mean to, but she was giving him an extremely sexy stare. The way her eyes were wide and pleading made him have a very impure thought. What was the matter with him? There was a psychopath on the loose. That was the top priority.
“It doesn’t matter how they died,” he said. “Not really. It was obviously some sort of poisoning—I could have told you that yesterday. What matters is catching this guy before he takes any other girls. You need to tell me everything. Now.”
She pulled her arm, trying to free it from his strong grip, but he held firm. “We can go over the old case file,” she said. “I said I would. Just not now.”
“I understand that the autopsy upset you,” he said. He spoke firmly but didn’t raise his voice. “But Underwood was right. You’re hiding something and we’re not leaving this hallway until you tell me what it is.” He was angry now. He couldn’t help it. He knew that she had problems—who wouldn’t be traumatized after going through what she had gone through? But she couldn’t hide information just because it was painful.
She took a deep breath. She was looking at the floor again, fidgeting with her fingernails. “I think he’s a photographer.”
He hadn’t expected her to have something that big. He wanted to be angry with her, but he was too excited to have a lead. “Like a professional? Does he have a studio?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He had a lot of equipment. Big cameras on tripods. Huge bright floodlights. That sort of stuff.” Fletcher nodded his head. Pretending to be a photographer was a common ruse used in child abduction.
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to soften his voice, but he did not let go of her arm. “But tell me at least one thing.”
“If I can,” she said.
“Did he approach you and your sister saying that he was a photographer or maybe a talent agent? That the two of you would make perfect models for his photo shoot?” He could see the guilt on her face. She looked sick. Her eyes were glassy with tears and her cheeks were slack.
“Yes,” she said. “And I was stupid enough to believe him.”
Six
Madison and Melissa Webb each had their phones out, scrolling through their not inconsiderable picture collection. “This one’s good,” Melissa said, shoving her phone in Madison’s face.
“Yeah, a good one of you,” Madison said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Melissa said. “We both look the same.”
“Then let me pick one where I look good and you have your eyes closed. You won’t say that it doesn’t matter then.” The girls were trying to select three photos to send in to a contest. There’d been a Facebook post in one of the groups they belonged to.
Models Wanted: twin girls, ages 10-14, dark curly hair preferred.
The girls had to send in their best three pictures. They were serious about it. Between their two phones, they had hundreds of casual shots and selfies, but they both knew that if you were going to enter a modeling contest you had to get professional photos taken.
There was a photo studio close by, next to the grocery store. It was a small place, run by just one guy, but he had all the professional equipment and he’d offered to take the pictures and give the girls three digital images for only twenty dollars. He’d sent them the proofs and they were trying to decide which pictures were the best.
A teen magazine was holding a contest and the winning girls would be chosen for a professional photo shoot and have their picture in the magazine. It would be for the upcoming May issue—the Mother’s Day issue—so the contestants shouldn’t tell their parents. If they were chosen, it would be a great Mother’s Day surprise!
The girls knew all about online pervs. This contest was definitely legit.
They were part of a Teen Twins Facebook group, where people posted funny memes and anecdotes. A few days ago, a magazine called Girl’s Wire posted that they were holding an amateur model contest. Madison had checked out Girl’s Wire. It was a small magazine based in Portland, but it was a real magazine. It wasn’t the sort of magazine you’d see at the grocery store checkout aisle, more like a magazine in the school library.
“We’re definitely going to get chosen,” Melissa said. “You know how many twins our age in Oregon have dark curly hair? Our odds are probably like fifty-fifty.”
“You should pay more attention in math class,” Madison said. “If our odds were really fifty-fifty, only one other pair of twins would have to enter.”
“Whatever,” Melissa said. “You know what I mean. How many other twins have dark curly hair?”
“Dark curly hair is the most common hair type,” Madison said.
“No it’s not,” said Melissa. That was absurd. Everyone at their school was blond or had that light brown hair the c
olor of dead leaves.
“Whatever, I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up. There’s probably going to be a lot of girls entering. I bet some of the girls will also dye their hair and curl it before they take their pictures.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Melissa said. Her certainty that they’d be chosen seemed to vanish instantly. Madison didn’t want to burst her sister’s bubble. It was just that Melissa didn’t always think things through. She either got too excited about things (like this contest) or not excited enough (like math class).
“We still probably have a good chance,” Madison said. “A lot of girls aren’t going to enter because it says the photo shoot is in Portland. Most won’t be able to get on a plane and fly here.”
“See what I mean? It’s like everything is already in our favor.”
They finally agreed on three pictures to send in. Madison opened up her laptop. “Okay,” Madison said. “What’s the website?”
Melissa consulted her phone. “It just says email three pictures along with your name, address, cell phone, and brief summary of why you want to be a model. Email it to [email protected].”
“It’s not a form on their website?” Madison asked.
“I guess not,” Melissa said.
Madison opened up another tab on her browser. She found the website for Girl’s Wire Magazine. It was definitely a real magazine. She looked around and didn’t see any links for the contest. She went to the Girl’s Wire Magazine Facebook page. No mention of the contest. They hadn’t tweeted anything about it either.
“Did you send it yet?” Melissa asked. She was on her phone, playing a game. “Dinner’s going to be ready soon.”
“Hold on,” Madison said. She went to the Teen Twins group page. There were tons of posts every day, but she finally found the post about the contest. The post wasn’t made by the Girl’s Wire Magazine Facebook profile. The post was made by a different profile called Girl’s Wire Contests. Madison clicked to look at that profile. “It’s sort of weird.”
“What?” Melissa said.
“There’s nothing about the contest on the Girl’s Wire website or on the Girl’s Wire Facebook page.”
“I found out about it on Facebook,” Melissa said. “Of course it’s on their Facebook page.”
“No,” Madison said. “The post on the twin group was from a profile called Girl’s Wire Contests. That’s not their main profile.” She turned her laptop around and tried to show Melissa.
“They probably have different profiles. Lots of people have different profiles.”
“Yeah,” said Madison. It was probably nothing. “Should we ask Mom?”
“It’s for the Mother’s Day issue. We’d ruin the surprise.”
“If we win, we’ll have to ruin the surprise anyway,” Madison said.
“We can have Aunt Jessie take us then,” Melissa said. She grabbed the laptop. “Look. The Girl’s Wire Contests Facebook page has lots of posts about other contests. They probably just have separate accounts because it’s easier.” Madison looked at the profile. Melissa was right. There were posts about make-up giveaways, gift card giveaways, essay contests, even a $1000 scholarship for high school seniors.
“Then why isn’t the contest on the website?” Madison asked.
“You’re just arguing with me because you’re scared we won’t win,” Melissa said.
“We probably won’t,” Madison said.
“Then so what? Who cares if we don’t win? You’re always afraid of messing up. Like in school, if you get a B on a test you always have to go to the teacher and beg for extra credit.” That was true, Madison knew. But because it was true, she was not going to admit it to her sister. If they lost, then so what. But they weren’t going to lose. They would win. Madison didn’t want to agree with Melissa, who got too excited about stuff—but their entry was perfect. It was like the contest was designed just for them.
“Fine,” she said. “Tell me the email address again.”
Fletcher spent the entire forty-five minute drive to Tualatin with his head spinning. His thoughts were moving too fast for him to focus. Fifteen years ago, Laurel had said that she’d been walking to school with her sister when a man in a station wagon had pulled up next to the sidewalk. He got out of the vehicle and tried to grab them both, but Laurel wiggled free. He forced Leigh inside the car and drove away.
That was the last time anyone had ever seen Leigh.
The teachers at the school said that Laurel had stumbled into the front office at lunchtime, saying that her sister had been kidnapped. That lost time—nearly three hours—was chalked up to her being in shock, wandering around the neighborhood looking for help. When asked what she’d done from 8:30 am to 11:30 am, she just said she didn’t know.
Laurel had been lying.
She’d been a scared twelve-year-old girl. Her sister had been abducted by a madman. But she’d still lied. Her lies might have even cost Leigh her life.
Fletcher pulled off Route 217 and into the parking lot of a small strip mall. There was no rain, but the sky was the dark purple of a bruise and rain would come soon enough. Absolutely Antiques was a small store, wedged between a dingy kebab restaurant and a vacuum repair store with a crooked closed sign hanging in the window.
Inside the antique store, Fletcher was overwhelmed. Just Junk would have been a better name for the place. The shelves were crowded and disorganized, packed full of spare parts and broken items. He had a feeling that the proprietor was a reformed hoarder. “Hello?” he called out. He couldn’t see anyone inside, but the junk was piled so high he could barely see two feet in front of him.
“Be right there,” someone called out from the back of the store. Fletcher didn’t want to venture any farther back for fear of collapsing shelves. Being smothered by an avalanche of empty Danish cookie tins and VHS tapes wasn’t at the top of his list of horrible ways to die, but it wasn’t at the bottom of that list, either.
A few minutes later, an older woman slowly made her way up the narrow aisle. She was at least sixty and had unfortunately huge hips, so wide he was amazed at the grace with which she navigated the crowded store. “Are you the police officer who called me?” she asked.
“I was the one who called you, yes,” he said. He wasn’t a detective, not anymore. What was he? A consultant? An author? An asshole who was trying not to give up on the second half of his life? That definitely wouldn’t fit on a business card.
“I was looking at my glassware,” she said. The numerous strands of amber beads around her neck clacked as she wormed her way behind the counter. “I don’t have anything from Whitmoore. I have some Fire King and Corelle, if you’re open.”
“I’m not shopping,” he said. “Can you look at these pictures, please?” He set the large, glossy prints of the tea set on the counter. She looked at them for a few minutes.
“That’s called Sunset Rose,” she said. “The pattern. I’d have to look it up, but early seventies to early eighties was when they made these.” She reached up onto the shelf behind the cash register and grabbed a thick book with a torn dust jacket. “Give me a second to look it up.”
“Sunset Rose,” he repeated, writing it down in his notebook.
“Yeah, that’s definitely Sunset Rose,” she said. She turned the book around, showing him the page in her collector’s almanac. There was a close-up picture of the design—dusky orange roses and olive green vines. “That pattern was pretty popular,” she continued. “Not as popular as the Cornflower, Red Fleur, or Autumn Apple. You’d probably recognize those patterns if you saw them. But Sunset Rose was up there.”
“How common were tea sets?”
“I was going to say,” she said. “Plates, bowls, and coffee mugs were common.” She turned the brittle page and it made a crackling sound. There were smaller pictures of various dishes and long lists of item numbers. “Mixing bowls and casserole dishes were the most common bakeware. You stumble on butter dishes or salt and pepper shakers eve
ry so often. If you can get a glass carafe with the matching tumblers, that’s a real find. But I’ve never seen a tea set. It’s not even listed here.”
“Can I see this?” he asked, pulling the book closer. He used his phone to take pictures of the Sunset Rose pages in the almanac. He browsed the lists—the almanac listed every individual piece that was ever sold. Different styles of cups, bowls, plates, mixing bowls, and casserole dishes made up the bulk of the items produced. They also made butter dishes, salt and pepper shakers, carafes and tumblers, napkin rings, and replacement lids.
No tea sets.
“I’ve never even seen a Whitmoore tea set,” she said. “But I’m by no means the authority. There’s two shops up in Portland—a lot more hoity-toity than my place—they might know.”
“I hate to break your heart,” Fletcher said. “But you’re not the first expert I’ve consulted.”
“Oh?” she said, unable to hide her disappointment.
“I thoroughly consulted Google before coming here,” he said, smiling, trying to turn on the charm.
“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” she said, laughing. She took her almanac and put it back on the shelf. “This book should be up-to-date. It’s the 1985 edition and it says here they stopped making Sunset Rose in 1981. But there’s more information online about glassware than I’ll ever know. As you can see, I’m a jack of all trades.”
“I couldn’t find anything about a Whitmoore tea set when I searched online.”
“If I had to guess,” she said, “this was probably a promotional item. You’re too young to remember, but grocery stores used to run weekly promo items. Spend fifty dollars, get a coffee mug. Next week, spend fifty dollars, get the matching saucer.”
“I had the A through J volumes of an encyclopedia set that my mom got from the grocery store just like that,” Fletcher said. “She gave up when it was time to get K. Said it was a scam.” He held out the photos to her. “Can you keep these, and if you come up with anything, let me know.” She took the pictures and looked through them again.