by Madelyn Alt
I looked down at what she was pressing into my hand. A CD? By one of the latest teen divas, no less. “What—”
“It was Mandy’s. Can’t . . . open. Passwords. I don’t want to see . . . anymore. But I can’t . . . keep it. Might be . . . I don’t know. Just . . . take it. Please.”
Opening the jewel case, I frowned. Behind the teen queen’s CD was a second CD, an unlabeled one.
“Found it . . . in her underwear drawer. Hidden.”
I had a sneaking feeling that she would never have considered handing over her daughter’s things to me on any other day. The drugs talking, I guess. “Mrs. Roberson, I’m not an expert. I might know someone, but—”
“Please. If it’s . . . important . . . police. But don’t . . . don’t tell . . .” Her eyelids fluttered, reopened, closed again, remained closed this time.
“Don’t tell?” I prompted her gently.
“Don’t tell Sid . . . about what we buried. He doesn’t . . . know. He’ll . . . hate . . . me. I should have . . .” Her voice was trailing away. “. . . should have . . . doesn’t know . . .”
I watched her a moment longer as sleep dragged her back down beneath its waiting darkness. Her lips worked now and then as she slipped farther away, trying to form words, but only one emerged.
“... baby ...”
She said no more.
I frowned, lost in thought, as I closed Mrs. Roberson’s door quietly behind me. Mom was just coming up the stairs. The aroma of hot coffee preceded her, fingers of scent that reached out to draw me in.
“Too late,” I whispered, taking the cup from her hand. Ah, caffeine. Much needed. “She’s out.”
“Asleep?”
“Blessedly. Should we call her husband, do you think?”
“I don’t have his work number. I’ll just have to stay. You can go on, though, dear. There’s no need for both of us to be here. What’s that you have?” she asked, nodding toward the CD I still held in my hand.
I gazed at it somewhat bemusedly. “Something she wanted me to look into. I’m not sure that I should—she was really out of it—but in the meantime, what do you think about the clock? Should I still take it back today?”
“I don’t see why not. Wendy did insist she wanted to return it.”
“Okay . . . but where do you suppose it is? I don’t exactly want to go snooping through their things.”
We looked at each other and said at exactly the same time, “Amanda’s room?”
I glanced over my shoulder toward the lone closed door leading off from the hallway. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to check. What do you think?”
“Quickly, then. I’ll stay here.”
I gave her a look that said coward, which she returned with an imperious lift of her brow. “Here,” I said, handing her the coffee cup and the CD, “hold this, then.”
I moved purposely toward the room I believed to be Amanda’s and pushed open the door.
The room had a queer, disused feel even though only a few days had passed since Amanda’s disappearance. It might have belonged to any well-to-do teenage girl. White wicker furniture, lavender bedspread, curtains for once, purple walls, dresser, armoire, desk—nothing strange or unusual about anything that leapt immediately into view. And yet . . .
I wandered inside and stood a moment to get my bearings. If I stood very still and reached out with my mind, I could feel something here. The remnants of Amanda’s presence, perhaps. A vague emotional imprint stamped into the warp and fiber of the room itself. Maybe it was none of my business, but I felt a strong need to understand. Was there something in here that might give some insight into Amanda herself, and how she came to this end?
Clock first. Then if there was time . . .
I opened what appeared to be the armoire first, only to find that it was in actuality a combination bookcase/entertainment center hiding the room’s various electronic components. TV, DVD player, stereo—little Amanda need never leave the deluxe confines of her own room. The drawer below held an assortment of DVDs. Typical teen fare, mostly juvenile comedies, some romance, a few scary selections.
The writing desk next to it was picked clean. It had space for a laptop computer, but the laptop itself was nowhere in evidence. The police, I assumed. Part of the investigation. I hoped they found something.
I moved on to the closet. Holy sheep, how many clothes did this girl own? Tank tops, sweaters, skirts, and pants spilled out of every free space, dangled loosely from hangers, filled the upper shelves. And where there weren’t clothes, there were shoes, boots, sandals, flip-flops. Amazing. But no room for the boxed-up clock.
My searching gaze fell upon the bed. I got down on my hands and knees to lift the coverlet. A few dust bunnies (In a house like this? Perish the thought!), but nothing else that I could see.
I sighed and sat back against my feet. Obviously the clock was nowhere in this room. Now what?
“Did you find it?”
I looked up at the sound of the half-whispered words to find my mom in the doorway. “No, nothing. I don’t think it’s in here.”
Mom seemed to have forgotten her intentions of standing watch. She wandered into the room, trailing her fingers over the pictures on Amanda’s bedside table. “So young.”
“I know.”
She lifted one of the frames. “This must be her boyfriend? Handsome boy.”
I came to look over her shoulder at the picture of the young couple some unseen photographer had caught in a playful moment, arms slung casually about each other’s necks. So this was Jordan—Mom was right, he was a handsome boy. It was also obvious he came from money. Vintage or not, designer polos, with their beloved alligator emblem, did not come cheap. Neither did the confident way of carrying himself—it seemed to come as natural as throwing his arms around his favorite girl.
And apparently, if Mrs. Roberson’s observations were more than just a mother’s guilt-induced ramblings, doing more than that as well. Not that that was out of the ordinary these days. But what about all the sexy lingerie? Was that normal for a girl of not-quite-eighteen?
My ears perked up at sounds coming suddenly from downstairs. “Someone’s here.”
“It’s probably Sid. About time, too. Come on.”
We left the room and quietly closed the door behind ourselves. A peek inside Mrs. Roberson’s room confirmed that she was sleeping soundly, so Mom and I made our way downstairs, where we found Sid Roberson in the kitchen, staring blankly down at his open briefcase on the table before him.
He looked up at us in surprise. “Pat. I’m sorry, I didn’t know Wendy was having anyone in.”
“We just stopped in for a moment, Sid, and she was having a hard time of it, so we thought we’d sit with her awhile. She’s sleeping now. I’m glad to see you back, though.”
“Thanks. It’s been a rough few days, at that.”
Quite the understatement, but I understood. Everyone seemed so dead-set against exposing themselves these days as having human feelings, human frailties. Maybe they thought to do so made them appear more vulnerable to the world at large, so avoiding it was a kind of self-preservation technique.
“Wendy had mentioned a clock that she wanted to return to the store my daughter works at. I thought Maggie could help her out while we were here. You don’t happen to know where it might be?”
He looked around the kitchen a moment. “Well, I thought it was right here.” He poked around in a few of the more emptier cupboards, then opened the door to the broom closet in the pantry. “Ah, here it is. It’s still in its box—I guess our Mandy had started to wrap it but never finished. In any case, Wendy can’t bear to look at it. She’ll be very grateful to the store for the return.”
“We completely understand, Mr. Roberson,” I assured him, taking the clock off his hands. The look in his eyes told me he was loath to give it over and might prefer to keep it, but he seemed ready to defer to his wife’s wishes. As an afterthought, I offered, “If you like, we can hold it for
a while, in the event that either of you changes your mind.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Securing the box under my arm, I opened my purse, removing the envelope that contained the money Felicity had given me. I handed it to him. “The amount that Amanda paid for the clock,” I explained.
He took it in his hand and opened it. The frown that looked permanently etched between his brows deepened. “That’s quite a lot of money. Are you sure there hasn’t been some sort of mistake?”
“Oh, no, sir. I sold Amanda the clock myself. There’s no mistake. In fact, I have a store receipt right here, if you need to see it . . .” I didn’t tell him what I’d told Tom—that Amanda had had quite a lot more cash on hand that day. It wasn’t my place.
“No, there’s no need.” He tossed the envelope onto the table.
Mom cleared her throat. “Well, since you’re home, Sid, there’s no need for us to stay any longer. Please tell Wendy to call me,” my mother added, “if she should need anything. Even just to talk. You take care of yourself, too.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
Chapter 13
I dropped my mother off at home and then headed back downtown for a bite of lunch. Annie-Thing Good was calling to my rumbling stomach in a big way. I’d offered to buy Mom lunch for not making me call on Mrs. Roberson all by my lonesome, but she turned me down, saying that she wanted to get back to make sure Grandpa Gordon didn’t fill up on Cheetos and licorice whips. Funny, the two of them together were like a fussy cat and an overly enthusiastic puppy, but it was becoming more and more obvious to me as the years went on just how much my mom cared for her father. She just didn’t want him to realize that.
The lunch rush was nearly over by the time I pulled up, so I scored a prime spot in angled parking directly in front of the glass storefront and headed inside, blinking as my eyes were forced to adjust to the lack of sunlight.
“Be right with you!” Annie Miller’s voice chirruped out from behind the saloon doors that led to the small restaurant’s kitchen. The sound of it was as shiny-bright as a brand-new penny, but worth so much more. Height challenged as she was, I could just see the fuzzy top of her carroty curls through the window to the back. I held my tongue, hoping to surprise her. Between the Christmas rush at the store and everything that had been going on, I hadn’t been by in a couple of weeks, and the heady rush of scents emerging from the kitchen were enough to send my olfactory reserves into sensory overload.
My mouth watered as I browsed along the glass counter. Not one, not two, but three different types of cheesecake were on the menu this afternoon, along with Annie’s signature turtle chunk brownies. A sliver of demure raspberry swirl was calling to me, but the double fudge ripple blitz was appealing to my closet bad girl. If I stuck to something light like soup, it couldn’t be considered completely indulgent, could it? Besides, I needed to think, and I possessed the kind of brain that needed to be fed regularly to be at its best. A little something special just might do the trick, and every woman knows that chocolate does it best.
I set my purse down on the counter beside someone’s packaged lunch and waited for Annie to finish. According to the chalkboard, today’s special was chunky chicken noodle with sage-butter bread, a hearty split pea with ham and shallots, or your choice of any regular sandwich. In light of my determination to have my cheesecake and eat it, too, I decided I’d better stick with the chicken noodle.
Annie appeared within moments, wearing one of her outrageous color combinations in the form of a mouthy T-shirt and long skirt for ease of movement, as always paired with her well-worn Birkenstocks.
Today’s T-shirt: I LOVE EVERYBODY . . . WANNA BE NEXT?
Soap bubbles clung to her hair and her freckled cheeks were pink with exertion, but she was all smiles as soon as she caught sight of me. “Maggie! I was wondering when I’d see you. How’ve you been, girl?”
“Hey, Annie!” I waggled my fingers at her. “I just came in to be fed, as usual. You know I like you even more than your food, right?”
“Oh-ho-ho, so you say,” Annie shot right back, as good-natured as ever. She pushed back a damp curl that had flopped down over her face. “And yet I never seem to see you unless I supply dessert. I just don’t know what to think.”
I laughed. “I do. I think I can’t get enough of your cooking.”
“Some friend. Good thing I love my job. What’s your pick for lunch today?”
“A cup of chicken noodle and, um, a slice of that double fudge cheesecake,” I said sheepishly.
“An excellent choice, if I do say so myself.” Annie placed a foam bowl on a tray and started to bustle about the big tureens. She slid the tray across the counter before me, topped it off with a real cloth napkin, and then dished up a generous piece of the creamy dessert and set it down on the tray with a flourish. “Think that’ll do you?”
“I think it might. In fact, you’re probably saving my life. Hey,” I said, remembering the reason she’d been missing from the cemetery investigation, “how’s your cousin’s baby? Was it a boy or a girl?”
She beamed. “A girl. Simmone Claire. Eight pounds, two ounces of pure love. She’s perfect.”
How nice it was to hear good news to counteract the effect of Stony Mill’s latest tragedy. Smiling to myself, I took my tray to a booth in the corner and slid in, settling down for a quiet and peaceful meal while Annie went back to her kitchen chores.
With nothing else to hold my attention, the CD came out of my purse. It really was none of my business, that much was obvious. Shouldn’t Mrs. Roberson have handed it over to the police with the rest of Amanda’s personal files? Why would she have given it to . . . me? I mean, okay, granted, the sleeping pills had played a big part in her decision-making process—of that I was certain. But was that enough?
I stared at the mirrorlike surface of the unlabeled CD as I ate my soup, wondering what I was going to do with the thing. Not what I should do with it, mind you, but what I was going to do with it. Because a part of me already knew that if I could find a way to take a peek at whatever was on this CD, I would do it. Consider it morbid curiosity. Chalk it up to my inquisitive nature. Call me out for being a busybody, if you must. I preferred the term “concerned citizen” myself. Besides, whatever the reason behind Mrs. Roberson’s oddly placed trust, I could not bring myself to refuse the call to arms. I would do my best to ascertain the nature of the information on the CD. For all anybody knew, it could be full of nothing more relevant than the Roberson family vacation pics. If it did prove to contain evidence, no matter how minute, I would turn it over to the police. And if not . . . well, then, I would let Mrs. Roberson decide its fate.
One thing was certain: I needed technical help for this one, for sure.
The door chimes tinkled, accompanied by a moment of street sounds and a billow of cold air. Shivering, I made myself a smaller target and waited for the chill to pass as I gathered up my tray. If I took the cheesecake to go, maybe I could catch up with Marcus. He was the closest thing to a computer guru that I could think of.
Annie sailed through the swinging doors, making them rattle on their hinges. “Afternoon, Randy. What can I get for you?”
Enchantments’ across-the-street neighbor, Randy Cutter, stood at the counter, all six feet of him, a short wool pea coat giving him a naval flair. I rose to my feet and took the tray over to the counter, where Annie was taking his order. I held back, waiting my turn.
“Okay, so that’s a double order of split pea, a Tuscan Chicken on Rosemary Brioche, a side order of Parmesan Peppercorn Bowtie, and a slice of apple pie. Oh, and a large iced tea.”
“That’s it. Thanks.”
That’s it? It must be nice, being a guy. I’d weigh a thousand pounds in no time if I ate like that. Dammit.
As Annie bustled away to the kitchen, Randy turned to acknowledge me with the customary nod. Neither of us really knew the other outside of our respective storefronts, so that’s as much of a greeting
as there would be. His gaze lowered slightly, involuntarily, as it so often does when a man encounters a woman in close quarters. Together we did the Step Aside Two-Step to get out of each other’s way as Annie brought his tray to him.
“Here you are, good sir. Soup, bowtie, pie. I’ll have your sandwich out to you in a jiffy.” As Randy began to turn away, Annie snapped her fingers. “For heaven’s sake! I’ll forget my head, next thing you know.” In an instant she reached below the counter for a checkerboard napkin, whipping it expertly open and draping it over his extended arm. “There you are,” she said, smoothing and patting it into place. “Good to go.”
He looked down at the napkin, then back at her.
Annie burst out laughing at his expression of incredulity. “Oh, go on with you, then,” she said, shooing him away. Turning her motherly attentions to me, she took my tray. “What’s this, Miss Maggie? No cheesecake after all?”
I shook my head. “I’ll take it to go, though.”
“I’ll just get a box for you.”
Annie whisked off to the kitchen. Randy Cutter gazed after her and just shook his head before stepping around me with his tray and moving toward the nearest table. Annie came back through the swinging doors, a small foam take-out carton in her hand.
“Annie, do you think I could use your phone?”
“Sure thing, sweetie. Here you go.” She pulled a phone out from under the counter and set it down in front of me. While Annie slid the cheesecake into the box, I dialed the store.
“Enchantments Fine Gifts and Collectibles,” Liss’s voice sang in my ear.
“Good afternoon, Enchantments,” I said lightly. “How is everything?”
“Just ducky, ducks. You know, I’ve so missed this. It’s good to be here. How has your day been?”
“Fine. Listen, I have a question for you. How good do you think Marcus is at computers?”
“Aces. Really top shelf. Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Promise. Right now I need you to tell me how I can find him.”