by Mark McNease
“I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do or not,” Maggie said quietly. “But he’s the only one who can tell me what really happened.”
“So you think Alice’s death is connected to the death of his daughter?”
“I do,” said Maggie. “I think whoever killed Lilly Stapley, killed Alice Drapier. But I have no idea why. I’m hoping a careful, gentle conversation with Peter Stapley might pint me in the right direction.”
“Do you want me to be with you?” Gerri asked.
“No, not for this. It’s going to be very delicate. He may not want to say anything, and if he doesn’t, that’s fine. But I have to ask. Alone with Peter, away from everyone else.”
“I don’t envy you, Maggie, but I trust you. And I think he will, too.”
“We’re going to find out.” Pushing away from the table, she added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s pill time for Checks.”
They both smiled as they heard the cat flee up the stairs. He was exceptionally smart, with a few feline superpowers, but he hated taking a pill as much as the next cat.
Maggie got up and headed to a cabinet above the sink. Taking down the pill bottle, she proceeded to stuff a small yellow tablet into a chicken-flavored Pill Pocket.
“Checks!” she called out, heading for the stairs. “Sweeties, I’ve got a treat for you!”
“He’s not stupid,” Gerri said.
Maggie ignored her, heading up after the cat. He’d feign a struggle and lightly scratch her, then surrender and take his medicine. That was the game they played.
CHAPTER Thirty-One
THE OTHERS AT THE FACTORY knew something was up when Maggie arrived. Even after David’s death, during the darkest weeks of her life, she had maintained a sense of forward movement, wanting to reassure the few people who worked there that they did not need to worry about their futures. But today she was different. Today she clearly had something on her mind when she got to work.
Maggie was glad Janice was at the bank when she arrived. She had not wanted to pursue her task at hand—asking Peter Stapley to have lunch with her outside the factory—with Janice’s perkiness distracting her.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Dahl?” Gloria asked.
Sybil, Gloria and Peter were preparing a small shipment to go out that afternoon.
“I’m fine,” Maggie replied. Realizing her emotions were reflected on her face, she forced a smile. “I was just hoping to speak to Peter alone.”
“Oh,” said Sybil. “Of course. We’ll go in the other room.”
“That’s not necessary.” Turning to Peter, Maggie said, “I’d love to take you to lunch, if you can get away.”
It was almost a rhetorical questions: when the boss asks if you can get away, the answer is yes. Still, Peter Stapley looked uncomfortable with the request. He’d been sealing a box when Maggie asked him. He set the roll of packing tape down and avoided looking directly at her when he replied, “Of course, I’d be happy to.”
Maggie detected no enthusiasm from the man. Peter was one of those people who seemed permanently depressed. And for good reason, Maggie knew. That was what made her mission so difficult. Bringing up the subject of his dead daughter would be difficult under any circumstances—she had never done it before—and now she wanted to have a real, detailed, conversation about it.
Sybil and Gloria kept exchanging curious glances. Was Maggie going to fire him? Was she going to offer him a raise, or a better position? In such a small company, what other positions could there possibly be?
“I know just the place,” said Maggie. “Don’t forget your jacket.”
Leaving the perplexed women behind, Maggie headed out to the car to wait while Peter got his jacket from one of the lockers David had installed for staff.
Maggie had the idea of eating at the Brightside Diner once she’d decided to go through with the lunch. There were several fine choices in town, including Bernadette’s, her favorite. But she wanted to try the Brightside for the second time since moving to Lambertville, and she’d hoped Tom Brightmore might be there.
He was.
Maggie and Peter had walked over from the factory in near silence. Peter had not asked questions about why they were having lunch, and Maggie had chosen not to tell him until they were comfortably seated in a booth. Instead, they’d made small talk about the business, the weather, and the Halloween decorations in such abundance they could not be avoided this time of year.
“Did you ever go in for the full Halloween treatment?” Maggie asked at one point as they strolled up Union Street.
She immediately regretted it. She knew Peter no longer lived in the house he’d occupied with his wife and daughter. His wife was long gone, no doubt unable to keep living in a town that held only unbearable memories for her; and his daughter had been taken in a moment, somehow abducted in broad daylight a decade ago. If the Stapleys had indulged in the Halloween festivities so beloved by the town, it would have been when they were all alive and happy.
“No,” Peter replied, staring straight ahead. “Not since …”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“I understand, and I apologize for asking. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No need to apologize, Mrs. Dahl. I never expected anyone to live with what I do. It’s easy for other people to forget. I imagine you know how that feels.”
Maggie caught his sideways glance at her. He was right. It had only been six months since David’s death, but everyone else had moved on. Everyone except Maggie and their son Wynn, and even he had recovered remarkably well. He was young, with his entire life ahead of him. There was no reason for him not to get on with it.
They crossed Bridge Street, turned right and reached the Brightside Diner two blocks later having said nothing more.
Maggie had only been to the diner one other time. She held the door for Peter as they entered. It wasn’t crowded—none of the restaurants had an especially busy weekday service—plus it was mid-day, not breakfast, not lunch, and not the kind of place that did much brunch business. There were, by Maggie’s quick count, only seven other people in the restaurant, including a server, cook, and the owner himself.
Tom Brightmore was taller than Maggie remembered him, passing the six feet mark by several inches. He was dressed casually in a flannel shirt and jeans, and he hurried over to welcome them as they entered.
“Morning, folks,” he said, indicating he did not immediately recognize Maggie. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”
Maggie chose a booth by the window. It allowed them to see outside, and it was well away from the few other customers. She wanted as much privacy as they could get.
Tom held out menus to them once they’d seated themselves.
Maggie looked up and was struck by the blueness of his eyes, eyes that matched his smile. Maggie had always noticed when someone’s expression was not reflected in their eyes; it was a good, quick way to detect insincerity. Tom Brightmore struck her as very sincere, as well as gentle, well-mannered and immediately likable.
“Judy will be over to take your orders,” he said. “In the meantime, can I get you some coffee?”
Maggie and Peter both said yes, then Maggie added, “My sister Gerri says hello.”
That stopped him. “Oh, you’re Maggie Dahl! Of course. I’m so sorry. I know you, I met your late husband once, and I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting your sister Gerri.”
Maggie wanted to say it was good someone found it a pleasure, but she held her tongue.
“I’ll get your coffee. If you need anything, Judy will take care of you, or just wave. I’ll be behind the counter.”
He walked off, leaving Maggie with a good impression of the man who might be dating her sister if things progressed. She could have thought about it more, or even engaged Brightmore in conversation, but she was not here about her sister’s social life. She was here about the murder of a twelve-year-old girl named Lilly Stapley, whose father was sitting across from her.
�
��What did you want to talk about, Mrs. Dahl?” Peter said.
It occurred to Maggie that he really had no idea why they’d come here.
“Your daughter,” she said, choosing to be direct. “I think what happened to her is connected to my neighbor’s death, and possibly more.”
Peter said nothing, extending his silence to the point of discomfort, while Tom Brightmore brought their coffee over. Sensing something intimate between them, he set the cups down, said, “Enjoy,” and left them alone.
Taking a deep breath, Peter Stapley began recounting for Maggie what happened one beautiful, perfect day in October. A day much like the one they saw outside the diner window. A day when nothing could go wrong, and everything did.
CHAPTER Thirty-Two
THE COUNTRY WAS A MONTH away from electing Barack Obama to the presidency. There was a feeling of renewal in the air, even from many who had no intention of voting for him. After eight years of war and an administration much of the American public had soured on, the prospect of a young, vibrant, gifted politician bringing something new to America was exciting. You could feel it in the air. You could hear it on the airwaves and read about it on this relatively new thing called the Internet. And you could see it in the yard signs posted around Lambertville, where many people were quite happy with the idea of a President Obama.
Peter and Melissa Stapley were not among those especially thrilled with the prospect. Both lifelong Republicans, they were unenthused about a McCain-Palin ticket, but they planned on voting for them anyway. Neither had ever been politically active beyond their circle of friends, most of whom were caught up in the excitement of electing a Democrat. Government policy just wasn’t important to the Stapleys. They weren’t uncomfortable living in a liberal enclave like Lambertville, but they kept their opinions to themselves and often wished more people would do the same.
It was a bright, sunny, October day. Melissa, Peter and their daughter, Lilly, had gone to Bernadette’s for breakfast, a favorite restaurant they treated themselves to every Saturday. The Stapley family sitting in a window booth was a familiar sight to other diners there, as well as to passersby on the street. They often waited just to get that table. Lilly, twelve years old as of August, loved watching people she knew walk by, and making comments to her parents about strangers, most of whom she knew were tourists. Lambertville was a destination, particularly on cool, clear, sunny days like this. They might come from ten miles away, or fifty, but they came and they strolled and they smiled as they explored a small river town with so much to offer.
At twelve, Lilly was very capable of being on her own. They lived a mere four blocks away, and Lilly was known around town for her friendliness. She was often seen talking to shopkeepers and neighbors. And while some might think she should not be alone—or be as outgoing as she was, sometimes with people she’d just met—twelve was not an unreasonable age to go around by oneself.
They’d just finished breakfast. Ruth, an older waitress who worked at Bernadette’s and had been a friend of the restaurant’s namesake before her passing, was clearing their table when there was a tap at the window. The Stapleys had not been paying attention to the outside when the tap came, and they all turned suddenly at the sound. Standing outside, his face inches from the glass, was Chip McGill.
Melissa forced herself to smile, while Peter gave a genuine wave and Lilly said loudly, “Hello, Mr. McGill!”, flapping her hand at him.
“I don’t like that man,” Melissa said through her strained smile, as if she were a ventriloquist keeping her lips from moving.
“He’s harmless,” said Peter, watching as Lilly leaned forward toward the window.
“He’s drunk.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Well, I don’t like him and I don’t have to.”
Peter shot her a look: not in front of Lilly, please. He did not want his daughter’s opinion of the handyman poisoned by her mother’s dislike of him.
Chip waved a last time and headed up the street toward the bridge. Ruth returned with the check, and Peter quickly put two ten dollar bills on the table and rose. It was time to leave.
Melissa wanted to stop at the jewelers to pick up a watch she’d had repaired. Peter wanted to buy a pound of custom coffee from the coffee shop three doors down. Lilly wanted neither.
“I’ll just stay here,” Lilly said, plopping down on the bench outside Bernadette’s.
“Are you sure?” Melissa asked. “You’ll get bored here.”
“People never bore me,” Lilly replied. She had a vivid imagination, and enjoyed making up lives for strangers she saw walking down the street. She even wrote stories about them, and declared that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up so she could take readers on the fabulous adventures in her mind.
“It’s a nice day,” Peter said in his daughter’s defense. “Let her stay here.”
Melissa wasn’t comfortable with it for some reason. It was as if the sight of Chip McGill staring into the window at them had given her a premonition. Still, she’d let Lilly wander alone many times and no harm had come of it. Her daughter was a very smart child, capable and mature for her age. She nodded reluctantly and headed to the jewelry store.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” Peter said to Lilly. “Don’t go far.”
It was the last thing he ever said to his daughter. He returned to an empty bench. An empty sidewalk. An empty street. And, soon, an empty life. Not only had his child gone far, she had gone so far he would never see her again.
By sundown the search was a town affair. Melissa Stapley had not yet turned her fury on her husband. After all, she had agreed to let Lilly stay behind on the bench. But within a surprisingly short time she blamed Peter for all of it. He was the one who’d convinced her to ignore her instinct and leave Lilly alone that day. He was the one who assured her nothing could go wrong. He was the one who told her the alcoholic handyman staring at them through the restaurant window was harmless. He was the one she had to leave, along with Lambertville itself, a year after Lilly was gone and presumed dead. For what else would someone do with a twelve-year-old girl, once he’d sexually assaulted her? What good would she be? Of course she was dead. She was not coming home. Peter could stay in this godforsaken town and wait until his last stinking breath. She would not, and did not.
Flyers stayed up for almost two years. Every few months a story ran in the local media, just to remind people that a girl had vanished on a clear, beautiful October day.
A young police officer named Bryan Hoyt, first on the scene when the Stapleys called the police, progressed through the small ranks of a small town police department to become a sergeant.
Peter Stapley lost his wife. Lost his house. Lost his job. And didn’t care.
That day had been the beginning of an end he was still waiting for and that he told Maggie Dahl about while they ate at the Brightside Diner, ten years later and a world away.
CHAPTER Thirty-Three
MAGGIE SAT IN STUNNED SILENCE. She had been uncertain if talking to Peter was the right thing to do, and now she even more unsure. The man sitting across from her in a booth at the Brightside Diner was still broken. She hadn’t fully realized that until this morning. She’d known Peter had been “getting back on his feet” for years, and she’d hoped working at Dahl House Jams was a major step in his painstakingly slow recovery. But now she couldn’t say. He seemed depleted by telling her what happened, as if recalling it all had peeled open a wound that, by its nature, could never heal.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, forcing herself not to avoid his gaze.
“Don’t be, Mrs. Dahl. I hadn’t thought about it a while, not in detail, anyway.”
Great, Maggie thought. I encouraged this man to relive the central horror of his life over eggs and toast. Good going, Mrs. Dahl.
They’d come this far, so Maggie carefully took another step, asking, “Did you ever think it was someone from town who took Lilly?”
“I neve
r doubted it,” Peter replied without hesitation.
Maggie was surprised at his certainty.
“Was there anyone in particular?”
Peter looked at her quizzically. He was a smart man and he could tell Maggie had someone in mind. She was fishing for an answer she already had.
Sliding his half-eaten breakfast away, Peter said, “Well, I know who it wasn’t.”
Maggie was surprised by the statement. She leaned up, waiting for him to continue. She saw a slight smile cross his lips, as if, despite the pain of remembering what had happened to his child, he was enjoying making Maggie wait. Good, she thought. Let him take enjoyment where he can.
“It wasn’t Chip McGill,” Peter said at last. “That I can tell you.”
“How do you know it—”
“I heard the rumors,” he continued, cutting her off. “I know where they started, too, with Alice Drapier. I never knew why she was so sure it was him, and I didn’t care. I just knew it wasn’t.”
“But he was there that day,” Maggie said. “Leering in the window at your family.”
Peter turned serious, almost hard. “He wasn’t ‘leering’ at us—not at me, not at Melissa, not at Lilly. He’s a good man. I grew up with him. If there is anything I know, it’s that Chip did not harm my child.”
“Did the police question him?”
“Of course they did! They questioned everyone. After he saw us at the restaurant he went straight to work on Jared Leightner’s guest house. He was fixing it up for the old man to rent. The police checked the time. They spoke to Jared. There was no way Chip could have had time to do anything to Lilly, even if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t! What Alice did to him was evil and destructive.”