“But, Al,” Marty says. “How did he know who I was talking about? I never said her name.”
I sip my tea and think about his words. “So someone is stonewalling. Any idea who?”
But Marty is all done talking. He stands and gathers up notebook and pen. We walk to the front door. I thank him and pull an imaginary zipper across my lips, make a tiny locking motion, and toss the invisible key over my shoulder. I’m looking for a big Marty smile. All I get is a grim “See ya.”
I go to the kitchen and kiss Grandma good night and then climb the stairs, toying with the idea of calling Sloan. My weak, girly part cries, Do it. Maybe he’ll come over, wrap his big strong arms around you, and make everything okay. But my other persona, the one whose blood and bones are constructed of powerful DNA from generations of women like Sybil and Dodie, shouts, Suck it up, you wuss, so I resist.
Good decision, as it turns out, since my answering machine has a message from Sloan.
“Hey. Gotta go to D.C. Just found out. Be good. I’ll dust you for prints when I get back. Ha.”
I assume he tacked on the single ‘ha” to let me know he’s trying to be funny. So Sloan is gone. Not that I care. At least that’s what I tell myself when I brush my teeth and examine myself in the mirror. I fully expect to see a wild shock of prematurely gray hair and a face frozen in horror like Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I’m dismayed to see I look none the worse for my ordeal. I slip into my Tweety Bird jammies and hit the sack.
Saturday
I awake late the next morning. Anticipating nightmares the night before, I went over every possible horror-filled scenario in my head before sleep bore me away. The mind games have worked, and I awake demon-free, refreshed and with a ravenous appetite. The only dream I remember makes me smile: Clad in a chauffeur’s cap and nothing else, I scampered through Mountain View Cemetery, dodging tombstones while Sloan pursued me with a fingerprinting kit.
Before I throw the covers off, I make a mental to-do list. First, a run with my new best buddy, Vlad. Second, shower, shampoo, and a stack of Grandma’s blueberry pancakes. Third, a talk with Nick to see if he’s figured out how to retrieve Sara’s Cabbage Patch Doll. But “the best-laid plans,” as they say …
I run a brush through my hair, slip into my jogging duds, throw open the door, and scream. There on my threshold, hand upraised to knock, stands my ex-husband, Harley the Horrible. Now I know why my sleep was untroubled. The real nightmare is standing right in front of me.
“Oh, shit!” I yell and try to slam the door. It bounces off his foot.
“Aw, come on, Allegra,” Harley says behind the door. “Just give me a few minutes. No harm, no foul.”
My affinity for sports analogies is the only thing I retain from our marriage.
“Maybe not for you,” I hiss through the crack in the door. One hand drifts to my face, and I finger the scar left by his West Point ring. “Hold up your right hand,” I order.
He puts his right hand through the crack.
“Take that damn ring off, and you can come in.”
I watch through the crack as he puts the ring in his pocket. I know it makes no sense. If Harley wants to hurt me, he can do so with his fists. But stripping away the symbol that proclaims Harley to be an officer and a gentleman unveils his true identity: that of a wife-beating bully. Buoyed by this small victory, I open the door.
A worried looking Susan stands next to Harley. At least she has the good grace not to yell, “Surprise!”
“So that’s why you went to Seattle,” I say. “To pick up Harley.”
“Yeah, well, remember I said he wanted to see you,” she says, a trifle defensively. Then she sighs. “I know, I know. I should have called you first. But he asked me not to. After all, he is my brother.”
Before I allow Harley into my apartment, I look for backup. Grandma Sybil and Aunt Dodie stand side by side at the bottom of the stairs. The high-beam intensity of their glares causes Harley to glance nervously over his shoulder.
“We’re right here if you need us, sweetie,” Grandma says. “Leave the door open.”
Susan says, “I’ll wait downstairs.”
I step aside to let Harley in.
“Nice,” he murmurs, looking around. “Susan said you’re doing well.”
While Harley checks out my apartment, I check out Harley. Lean and fit. Where once he was bulky and soft around the middle, he now sports washboard abs and a healthy glow. The buzz cut is gone. His light brown hair is long enough to part and comb to one side. Harley remodeled. Because I can’t peek inside his soul, I assume the changes are cosmetic.
He makes a move toward the kitchen table. “All right if I sit down?”
“You won’t be here that long. What do you want, Harley?”
He shifts a little and clears his throat. “Would you please look at me?”
When I meet his gaze, his eyes are soft, almost pleading. “I’ve quit drinking.”
He pulls a folded paper from his pocket. I watch, astounded, as he unfolds it and reads, “Step Eight: Make a list of all the people I’ve harmed and become willing to make amends to them. Step Nine: Make direct amends to such people whenever possible.”
He pauses and gives me a significant look. “That’s where you come in.”
“I’m part of your twelve-step program?”
“Yeah,” he says with a sickly grin. “This is me making amends.”
I rub my scar. “How do you propose to do that?”
I’ve thrown him a curve. Worry lines appear in his smooth, tan forehead, and his eyes dart across the page as he peruses his notes. The words “I’m sorry” have never been a part of Harley’s vocabulary. When he looks up at me, I see flashes of the old Harley. “Dammit, Allegra, why are you making this so hard?”
I point at the door. “I think you’ve got some more work to do. See ya, Harley.”
He looks like a kid whose brand-new skateboard was stolen the day after Christmas. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“I really want to cross you off my list.”
I give him a mock salute. “As they say in the army, tough titties.”
He flushes and heads for the door.
“Harley,” I say when he reaches the door. “Go ahead and cross me off your list. I crossed you off mine a long time ago.”
He turns to look at me. I see the sadness in his eyes and feel ashamed.
“It doesn’t work that way, Allegra.”
I hear Harley descend the stairs, Susan questioning him, his muffled reply, the front door opening and closing. I think about my mean-spirited words. Words I’ve waited a long time to say. They haven’t made me feel better.
I remember Susan’s gentle remonstration. “If I’m not mistaken, you married Harley to please your mother.”
Chagrined, I realize there’s a distinct possibility I have some work of my own to do.
Two hours later, I’ve accomplished the first two items on my list. Feeling righteous after a forty-five minute run and replete with blueberry pancakes, I ponder my options for the third. I don’t want to call Nick for fear Harley will answer.
I needn’t have worried. The phone rings just before noon.
Before I can answer, Nick says, “I got it! I got the doll.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told Patsy my Boy Scout troop was having a toy drive and could I please have Sara’s doll.”
“Where are you now?”
“Home.”
“Is your mom there?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says with thinly disguised amusement. “You mean, is Uncle Harley here?”
I make a disgusted noise.
“They’re visiting friends. Won’t be home ’til later.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Chapter 23
Nick and I rendezvous in the family room, and I fill him in on last night’s aborted kidnap attempt.
“So you didn’t see their faces?”
“No, but the guy
who grabbed me seemed about my height. I only saw the tall guy for a second when he was running for the car. He ran funny, you know, flopping around like a scarecrow, and his voice sounded weird. It had an edge to it like …”
I force my mind back to that dark, scary place. The odd tonality. The awkward hitch in his get along. “Like a rusty gate,” I finish.
I think about the jerky, ungainly mannerisms of Robinson Hunt’s financial manager. Last night I was so terrified my mind slammed shut. “Gordon Venable. He sounded like Gordon Venable!”
Nick’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh, my God!” I clap a hand over my mouth.
Nick’s face drains of color. “If it was Venable, it probably means they’ve got Sara.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “Maybe we have something they want. First, they break into my house. They find my sticky notes so they know about the key, our suspicions about the Hewitts and Peggy Mooney, and that we have Sara’s notebook. And if Robinson Hunt really is Roy Harris—”
“He is,” Nick says, his thin chest rising and falling in his effort to breathe. “I checked last night, and Joe Stepanek served time at Chino for selling drugs. His sentence overlapped with Roy Harris’.”
“So Joe knew Roy Harris in prison,” I say. “Joe came back to Vista Valley and recognized Hunt, knew he wasn’t who he said he was. Now Joe is dead.”
I grab Nick’s hand and squeeze it. “This may not be about Sara at all.”
Nick looks grim. “There’s more,” he says. “I ran the Hewitts’ name and got a hit in the archives of the Vista Valley Tribune. Three years ago, a foster child died in their care. A twelve-year-old boy.”
“The year before I came back to Vista Valley. How did he die?”
“Head injuries. The Hewitts said he fell off the top bunk.”
“Was there an investigation?”
“Yeah, sort of. The first article said the Hewitts heard a thump around midnight and found the kid dead on the floor the next morning. Two days later, a different story came out. Patsy and Dwight gave an interview, and guess who their spokesman was?” Without waiting for my response, Nick says, “Their family minister, Robinson Hunt.”
I catch my breath. “How did their story change?”
“Hunt said the kid had night terrors. The Hewitts heard a noise but thought he was having another nightmare. When it got quiet, they assumed he went back to sleep.”
“Very handily giving them a good reason for not checking on the boy sooner.”
“Yeah, and that’s not all. Hunt said the kid was troubled and that he was working with the family. Counseling them.”
My sense of dread deepens. “Troubled,” I murmur. The same word he used to describe Sara. “I don’t get it. What would Hunt have to gain by helping the Hewitts?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. But the same article said a lawyer had been retained for the family. Peter Ford.”
I throw up my hands. “So the Hewitts, who don’t have a penny to their name, have the support of a charismatic minister and a high-powered lawyer. Anything more?”
“Just one. The police cleared the Hewitts. Social and Health Services said they would continue to place foster children with the Hewitts.”
“Peggy Mooney?” I ask.
“You got it.”
“Damn!” I yell. Information swirls through my overloaded brain. Too many unconnected facts crackle and snap like crossed wires. The inside of my head is probably filled with blue-black smoke and noxious fumes. I can almost smell them.
Nick gives me a quizzical look. “You okay?”
“I can’t think straight.” I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Let’s see what’s inside Clementine.”
The doll is as grubby as I remember. Her stringy blond hair has faded to the color of dirty straw, her little pink dress threadbare and worn. The doll’s slovenly appearance is in stark contrast to the trademark Cabbage Patch moon face with its dimpled apple cheeks, innocent close-set eyes, and lips curled upward in an expression of perpetual joy.
I peek under her dress and spy a Onesie, that all-purpose garment babies wear instead of an undershirt. I press gently on Clementine’s tummy and hear a crinkling sound.
“Paper?”
“Sounds like it,” Nick says.
Feeling like a voyeur, I unsnap the Onesie, pull it up and discover Cabbage Patch dolls have belly buttons. Who knew?
But Clementine’s belly button is unique. It’s bisected by a crooked, crudely fashioned seam. Someone cut a three-inch slit in the fabric, overlapped the raw edges, and fastened it with snaps. I unsnap it quickly, reach inside the slit, and pull out a sheet of paper folded into fourths.
Nick leans close as I carefully smooth it out. It’s written in purple ink and says:
If anyone needs to know,
My life is written between the lines.
Sara
Beneath the signature is the freehand drawing of a soaring bird, not unlike the one tattooed on Joe’s chest. But this bird is rendered in elaborate detail, a glammed-up seagull complete with flaring tail feathers, curlicued wings, curved beak, fluttering eyelashes, and grasping claws.
“Oh, this is a big help,” I say, blowing out an irritated breath.
“Hold it,” Nick says, grabbing the paper from my hand. He holds it up to the lamp and studies it.
“Okay,” he says. “There’s an S. Look at the tail feathers.”
He’s right. A stylized S adorns the gull’s fanny. I keep quiet and let Nick do his thing. He grabs a pencil and begins to write as the letters appear to him.
S-T-E-N-O-G-R-P-H-Y.
Nick dashes over to his computer. After a few key strokes, he says, “Stenography is the art of writing hidden messages in a manner that no one but the recipient can interpret. The message may be hidden in pictures, covered in wax or written with invisible ink.”
“Huh,” I say, still not seeing a connection.
I look at Clementine lying forgotten on the table, clothes in disarray, her chubby baby arms and legs splayed open and vulnerable. When I pick her up and reach under her dress to grab the end of Onesie and pull it down, I see something strange. Something is written on Clementine’s back. Apparently I made a sound, because Nick grabs the doll out of my hands. He studies the words for a moment and then gives a yip of excitement.
“Best Loved Poems. That’s what it says. Best Loved Poems!”
I stare at the words and try to wrap my brain around the concept.
Nick gives me a pitying glance. “You don’t get it, huh?”
“Get what?”
“She copied the poems out of your grandmother’s book. Right?”
I nod.
“I’ll bet she’s written her diary between the lines of the poems. In invisible ink.”
“That’s a bit of a reach.”
He turns back to the computer. “It says here you can make invisible ink out of milk, diluted honey, vinegar, cola…”
I flash back to the bottle of cola under Sara’s bed. I still think Nick’s gone off on a wild tangent, so I don’t mention it.
Allegra the smart-ass doubter says, “What do you write with? An invisible pen?”
He shoots me a disgusted look. “Of course not.”
He looks at the screen. “Toothpicks, fountain pen, finger dipped in the liquid, feather quill …”
“Feathers!” I exclaim loudly. “Sara had a bouquet of feathers in her room and a bottle of cola under the bed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nick demands.
“I didn’t think it was important.”
My stomach feels queasy. I glance out the window, suddenly aware of every passing vehicle. Venable and his cronies must know where Nick lives. Whether they’re after Sara’s diary or Joe’s information is beyond me, but I know we need a safe place for Nick to work.
Nick is studying Sara’s message. The back of his neck is exposed. Pale, thin. Easy to snap. I shudder at the image. “We can’t stay here.”
Surp
risingly, he agrees. “Maybe we should call Sloan.”
“Gone to D.C.” I think for a moment. “Sara’s notebook is locked in the safe at Doc Myers’ office. Nobody around on a Saturday … perfect place for you to work. I’ll call Dodie.”
“Call me when you’re done, and I’ll come back and set the alarm,” Dodie says. “And, you, Ms. Nosy!” She shakes a finger in my face. “Don’t touch the medical equipment. Remember the time you dismantled an examination room? Believe me, Dr. Myers does.”
“Moi?” I put on an injured face. “How muy absurdo! Besides, I was only nine at the time.”
Dodie rolls her eyes and leaves.
Nick sits at a table in the employees’ lounge, Sara’s notebook in front of him. He’s found out heat is required to activate the hidden messages. Susan’s iron, set on low, is plugged in next to the table. I stand behind him and watch.
He gives me an irritated look. “I can’t concentrate with you breathing on me. Go find something to do.”
So, really, it’s Nick’s fault I stumble into the room that holds patient files. The file room has bright fluorescent lighting and a gaily colored filing system that intrigues me. Warm colors dominate the top shelf: reds, oranges, and yellows. Cool shades of blues and greens are assigned to the bottom shelf.
I’m in the yellow section. Since I find no mention of jaundice, I deduce the color scheme has nothing to do with diagnoses. My medical history is a real snoozer: childhood vaccinations, broken left arm when I fell off my bike, annual checkups, and a broken big toe when I worked for Grandpa Mort one summer and dropped a battery on my foot.
I replace my file and look for something juicier. In my own defense, I only scan the medical records of people I don’t like. What I discover reinforces my belief in karma. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Moats, who tied me to my desk with a jump rope, suffers from shingles. Makes sense. All that meanness had to go somewhere when she retired and quit tormenting little kids. And Sandra Boyle, the girl who stole my boyfriend in tenth grade? Ha! Genital warts!
“What are you doing?”
I shriek and drop a folder. Several loose papers flutter across the floor. Nick stands in the doorway, his face a mask of disapproval.
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 17