���So she might have been planning on getting in late that night or staying over wherever she was going.���
���Honestly, she could have been saying something about getting in late or not coming back but I wasn’t paying attention.��� Debra began to cry.
Emme reached out and took one of the girl’s hands.
���Debra, I know the police asked you these questions, but I have to ask you again. Was Belle involved with anyone?���
Debra shook her head.
���Are you sure? Maybe she’d met someone-���
���She’d have told me. She told me everything.���
Everything, Emme thought, except where she was going.
���Did she ever mention her father?���
Debra reached for a tissue. ���Only to say she didn’t have one. We figured that meant he’d left her and her mom, or that he was dead or something, so no one asked about it again.���
���The police asked you if you knew anyone with the initials D.S.���
���I don’t. I mean, I do, but no one who’d have been with Belle that morning.���
���Who are you referring to?��� Emme didn’t recall seeing the name of anyone in particular in the file.
���Danielle Singletary is one of our sisters, but she left Friday night on the bus to St. Ansel’s for a lacrosse tournament over the weekend.���
���Do you know for sure she went?���
���She was the tournament’s high scorer.��� Debra picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her shorts. ���The bus didn’t get back until late Sunday. It was a two-day thing.���
���Maybe the library can give me a list of all the students and faculty members whose initials are D.S.,��� Emme thought aloud.
���I can print them off my computer,��� Debra offered.
���That would be great, thanks. Debra, who else was Belle friendly with?���
���Everyone here in the house is friendly with one another.��� Debra shrugged. ���It’s a pretty small school, so you know just about everyone. I don’t think there was anyone outside of the sorority that she hung out with. There were four of us who were in the same dorm last year and got close and pledged together.���
���Can you give me the names of the other two girls?���
���Patti Sullivan and Kendall Long. Did you want to speak with them?���
���If they’re available, sure.���
Debra stopped rocking and stood. ���I’m pretty sure they’re both here. We all signed up for summer session this year. I can check while I print out that list for you. I’ll just be a minute.���
The girl got to the door, then turned around and said, ���I’d invite you in but the place is really a mess. We had a little party last night, and we’re still cleaning up.���
���I’ll wait,��� Emme told her, and while she waited, she rummaged in her bag for the notebook she knew she’d brought with her and the pen she was positive she’d picked up on her way out of the hotel room that morning. Moments later, the door opened and the two girls Debra mentioned joined Emme. She’d hoped that one of them would have thought of something that would shed some light on Belle’s disappearance, but neither had.
Debra returned with three sheets of paper that she handed to Emme.
���I ran a search for all the students, faculty, and former students back three years whose initials are D.S.,��� Debra told her. ���There are twenty-two names.���
Emme scanned the lists.
���Debra, this is perfect.��� She smiled at the girl. ���You’d make a good cop.���
���Thanks.��� The girl beamed, evidently pleased at having done something that might help find her roommate. ���I wish I could do more.���
���I wish she’d have left something behind to guide us. Her computer would have been nice. I wish she hadn’t taken it with her.���
���Uh-uh, she didn’t take it.���
���Chief Dietrich thinks she did.���
���Nope.��� Debra shook her head.
���Are you positive?���
���It was on her desk when I got up. That was around ten thirty. The cover was open, but the screen was dark, like it had gone into suspend mode? She used to do that all the time, turn it on and then forget and leave. I always told her she was lucky I wasn’t a nosy person because I could read her email when she wasn’t looking. Didn’t seem to bother her, though���-Debra shrugged-���because she did it all the time.���
���The police are under the impression that she took it. Why would they think that?���
���When they asked me if I knew where it was, I said no. It had been on her desk earlier in the morning but it wasn’t there later. I guess they just assumed that I meant she’d taken it. Maybe she did come back later and pick it up-who knows?���
���What do you think the chances of that are?���
���Probably not so good,��� Debra admitted.
���So if it was still there after she left, and she didn’t come back for it, what happened to it? Where is it?���
Debra shook her head. ���I have no idea.���
���Did you notice anyone in the house that day��� someone who didn’t belong here?���
���I was out all afternoon. There was a big basketball game and a bunch of us walked down to the gym together. After the game, we stopped in town for dinner so we didn’t get back here till around eight thirty or so. Then we all got changed and went to a party, so I wasn’t around much.���
���Did you notice if the laptop was there when you came back after dinner?���
���I didn’t. I’m sorry.���
���I guess it’s too much to hope you lock your doors when you leave?���
Debra blushed. ���I didn’t think about it. We almost never lock the door unless we’re both leaving for the entire weekend.��� Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. ���Do you think someone came in and stole it?���
���I’d say that’s as good a guess as any.��� Unless it sprouted legs and walked out on its own. ���How many ways in and out of the house are there?���
���There’s the front door here, and the terrace door around the corner.��� Debra pointed to the left side of the house. ���There’s a door out back that goes into the kitchen, and one of those outside doors that go down to the basement.���
���Are any of the doors left unlocked during the day?���
���The front door, but I don’t know about the others. I guess it depends on what’s going on.���
���How about that Saturday? Anything going on that might have made it necessary to leave the doors unlocked?���
Debra thought it over for a moment. ���I don’t know.���
Emme stood. ���Debra, if you think of anything-anything at all, doesn’t matter how small or silly it might seem to you-get in touch, all right?���
���I will.��� Debra stood also, and when Emme began to walk toward the steps, she followed along. ���Do you think you’ll find her, Ms. Caldwell? Do you think she’s still alive?���
���I hope so.���
���So do I.��� Debra corrected herself. ���So do we��� all of us. We all miss her, and we worry about her. We pray for her every night.���
���You just keep on doing that,��� Emme told her as she turned to leave. ���Every night until we find her������
SEVEN
Nick had remained standing on the walk while Emme backed out of the parking spot. He’d walked her outside mostly t
o satisfy his curiosity about her ride.
He’d figured her for a turn-of-the-century smallish sedan that had good gas mileage but not much under the hood. He permitted himself a smug smile as he watched her drive off in her 2001 Honda. That had been way too easy a call.
A pity. A woman that beautiful should be behind the wheel of something with more style, something small and zippy-maybe a Z or a Saab convertible. Then again, she hadn’t seemed too interested in cars. Didn’t know a classic Porsche when she saw one, but then again, to be fair, how many people did?
The understated sedan fit her to a T in some ways. She’d been pretty understated herself-rich, reddish hair pulled back in a simple elastic, and not much makeup, even on her eyes, which seemed to be where most women wore the most color. Her eyes had been the first thing he’d noticed about her. They were green-not almost green, but green-green-and flecked with gold. She had skin fair enough to burn if too long unprotected from the sun, he’d noticed that, too, and small hands that seemed to be moving all the time. An image flashed across his mind, Emme handing him the photocopy from Belinda’s datebook. No rings on either hand. He was surprised that he hadn’t picked up on that at the time. His fingers toyed with her business card. He knew he’d be calling her.
After she’d left, Nick had gone back to work and tried to keep his focus on the Porsche, but he was distracted thinking about the boxes of Belinda’s belongings that had arrived at the farmhouse in Liberty Creek when the new semester had started. Back in February, the housemother had called with concern, but the bottom line was that she felt it would be better for everyone-especially Belinda’s roommate-if his niece’s things were removed from the sorority house. If he trusted her to pack for him, she would be happy to do that, and would she like him to ship them directly to his house. Her way of making sure it was done and done soon, he’d thought at the time. He’d opted to have everything sent to the farmhouse, since his place was small and he had no intention of unpacking her things and putting them away. The cartons could sit out there until she came back for them��� or not. He’d given little thought to the call until Herb Sanders, whose property bordered the old Perone farm, left him a message saying that a whole lot of boxes had been delivered to the back porch and he’d put them in the barn for safekeeping. That had been sometime in March, Nick recalled. He’d kept telling himself that Belinda would be back and she could see to her own things, but that had proven to be just so much wishful thinking.
Nick rubbed a smear of grease from the back of his hand and turned off the spotlight he’d trained on the engine. It had been months since he’d been to Liberty Creek. Today was as good a day as any to go back.
The drive through the Maryland countryside was an uneven one, here an acre-sized lot sporting a trailer, there a breeding farm of thoroughbred horses or a herd of bison, then suddenly, a small town would appear as if by magic, like Brigadoon. It was only a forty-five-minute drive, but Liberty Creek was worlds away from Khoury’s Ford.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone there without Belinda. Upon her mother’s death, the property had passed to her. It suddenly occurred to him that if the worst had happened to his niece-he could not bring himself to even think the words If Belinda was dead-the farm would be his.
That was a sobering thought.
Not that Nick hadn’t wanted it-he had. Still did, if he were to be honest with himself. He’d spent the happiest days of his life there when his grandparents were alive. There were a lot of surprised faces around Liberty Creek when it became known that Wendy, not Nick, had inherited the property. Back then-ten years ago, now-Nick hadn’t minded. All he’d really wanted was his grandfather’s garages and what they held. As long as he had those-and he did-Wendy and Belinda were welcome to the house and all the property that went with it.
He turned onto Evergreen Road without even realizing he’d done so. A quarter mile more and he made a second right, this time onto the long drive his grandfather had had paved almost twenty years earlier. Nick never drove up that lane without hearing his grandmother, Angela, bending her husband Dominic’s ear over having spent so much money on the macadam.
���What, are you crazy?��� She’d been incredulous when she found the entry in the checkbook. ���For a driveway?���
He’d responded calmly, but from behind the safety of his newspaper. ���I haven’t spent all those hours and all that money on my cars to have them bottom out on a pothole, not to mention all the dust.���
The only other time she’d mentioned it, he’d silenced her with a softly said, ���Gotta protect my investment, Angie,��� and that was the end of that.
The house came into view before the row of cinder-block garages did. Since the passing of both grandparents, Nick had never driven up that lane without feeling his heart pinch just a little. He missed them both, and probably always would. More, maybe, even than he missed his parents.
He parked near the back porch where his grandmother’s roses stretched up and over onto the roof and got out of his car, listening to the stillness there. No traffic noise, no human sounds. It was the quietest place he knew. He fingered the old key ring in his pocket, debating. House first or barn or garages? He opted for none of those, and instead, made his way down to the pond.
The air smelled clean, of new grass and the late spring flowers that grew wild. He knew the names of some-marsh marigolds, violets, cornflowers-but he’d forgotten more than he’d remembered. As a boy, learning the names of flowers hadn’t been a priority. He knew roses, of course, and dandelions, and Queen Anne’s lace, but it was too early still for them. He had a sudden memory of seeing a picture in one of his grandmother’s magazines of a woman identified as Princess Anne, and wondering aloud if she was the lady the flower was named for, and if so, what she’d done to have been demoted from queen to princess. Wendy had laughed at him and called him a cute kid. It was the last summer they’d both spent time at the farm together. The following year, Wendy had gone off to Princeton and Nick had the farm and his grandparents to himself.
The cattails were thicker than he’d seen them in past years, and as he walked the slope down to the water, a great blue heron rose on wide wings from the reeds and took off abruptly, as much spooked by Nick as Nick had been by the bird. Geese nested amidst the grass that had grown long, and weeds grew unchecked on the bank. He put Clean around pond on his mental checklist.
The playhouse his grandfather had built on the bank still stood, but it looked as if it had taken a beating during that last winter storm. Nick pushed the door open and stepped inside. The smell of musk and dry rot hung in the air, and he added another mental note to ask Herb if he knew a good carpenter who could come out and take a look at it, see if it could be salvaged. He hated the thought of having to take it down. Wendy had moved most of the furniture up to the house at the end of the summer before she died. Belinda was too old for a playhouse, she’d told Nick, but a glance at the contents of an old bookshelf made him wonder. Pippi Longstocking. Nancy Drew. Anne of Green Gables. He picked one from the shelf and opened it, recognized the BH written in the fancy, curly script Belinda had affected when she was younger. He replaced the book on the shelf and went back outside, noting that the doorframe was rotting and the door itself loose on the hinges.
Better make that Call Herb today.
He checked the barn on his way to the house, the old door squealing like mad on its rusty hinges. Belinda’s boxes were still stacked inside the door, and he carried them, one by one, up to the house where he placed them in the front hall. As he carried out the last of the cartons, he saw that the barn, too, could use some repair. He placed the box on the ground and walked back inside, taking note of the work that needed to be done. By the back door, he spied his grandfather’s old John Deere tractor, the one he’d had for as long as Nick could remember. He’d retired it when Nick was in his teens, having decided that renting out his fields and having someone else plow and plant and harve
st gave him more time for the things that really mattered to him.
The things that had mattered most to Dominic Perone-after his family, of course-were housed in the sturdy block garages he’d built, one after another, to accommodate them. By the time Nick was five years old, he could rattle off the names of every one of the occupants of those garages.
The 1955 Chevy. The 1959 Cadillac. The 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk. The 1953 Oldsmobile Fiesta.
���These are the modern classics,��� his grandfather would tell Nick as he cleaned a spark plug. ���Yes, sir, these and the American muscle cars, they’re going to bring in big bucks one day. You mark my words, Nicky.���
He’d point to the cars, ten years old or so, that he’d bought for cheap.
���GTO, Camaro, Charger, Mustang,��� he’d prophesized. ���These babies breathe fire.���
And then he’d open the garage that held his two very special loves. ���Sixty-three Corvette Stingray split-window coupe, Nick. Instant classic. Only produced one year. Damn, but she’s a beauty, isn’t she?���
The other-���Sixty-eight Shelby Cobra GT 350 fast-back. This little sweetheart could shake the ground under your feet and rattle the teeth in the back of your mouth���-he’d worked on restoring only when Nick was available. It had taken two full summers to complete. Nick had never had a better time in his life. Every minute he spent working on that car had been golden, magic.
Hell, that whole summer he’d been seventeen-the summer of ‘89-had been magic. There’d been the hot August night he and his granddad had been glued to the TV to watch the replay of Nolan Ryan of the Texas Rangers pitching that mystical five thousandth strikeout to the Oakland A’s Rickey Henderson. Five thousand strikeouts! The thought of it had made Nick’s head spin. His grandmother had been sitting in her favorite chair reading The Joy Luck Club and had paused to watch the replay and peered over the top of her glasses to murmur, ���I’m not sure I understand what all the fuss is about.���
The next year, Dominic sold the Shelby Cobra to pay Nick’s college expenses after his mother died and his father had gone off to look for wife number three. Nick would never forget the sense of loss he felt when he found out that prized car soon would be parked in someone else’s garage.
Cry Mercy Page 8