“Can I look at the scarf?” I touch the edge of the bag.
“Yes. But don’t take it out.”
“I know. I know. It’s evidence.”
I open the plastic bag with the scarf. Muddy. Mostly black. Silky. Shredded threads with no color left.
“Can I touch it?”
“Probably shouldn’t, honey.”
Springsteen goes off. Mom digs into her pockets.
I raise the baggie to my nose. It smells like rotting seaweed. “How could it get so gross in two days?”
“Just a minute . . .” Mom hates to miss a call. She digs and digs until Springsteen finally shuts up.
“Dang. Missed it.”
“I don’t think this is the scarf she wore the other day,” I say and wish it to be true.
“Nah.” Mom waves at the baggie in disgust. “Whatever that is has been out in the elements much longer than a couple days. But I’ll take it to the lab anyway. Dad didn’t bring any food yet?”
“Nope, not yet.”
“Mom, can you get DNA off lip prints on a cigarette?”
“Well, there’s something called touch DNA, where you can find DNA in grime and oil in fingerprints and tears and sweat, but there have to be human cells left behind to—”
I can’t hear all of what she’s saying because she starts walking down the hall. I follow her to her office, where she sits at her sheriff’s desk and opens a drawer.
20
The front door opens and a cold breeze follows Dad into the house. He looks tired.
“If this keeps up, I’m going to have to place special orders. I’m running out of food and supplies,” he says.
“Heck of a way to have a good sales day,” says Mom.
“I’ll say. But what do you think, Margaret? Should I place a big order?”
“How should I know, Gus?” Mom says it a little sharper than Dad deserves.
Dad grumbles and trudges upstairs. Mom leans her elbows on her desk and rubs her eyes.
“Sorry!” she yells over her shoulder, loud enough to catch Dad halfway up.
“I’ll figure it out,” he calls back down.
“Mom?”
“What, Quinnie?” She starts shuffling through a different drawer.
“Did you talk to John Denby?”
“I’ve lost something. I can’t find the number for the lab. As soon as I find it, I’m going to bed. Got to get up early tomorrow.”
“It’s only eight o’clock,” I say.
“Yes, and I have”—she switches to her file cabinet—“a big day tomorrow.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Your instincts are right, Mom. We’re going to find her.”
“I know we are. We are going to do our very best to find her.”
She finds the paper with the lab number in a third drawer and punches it into her phone’s contact list, backspacing and muttering the whole time.
“Mom,” I say, “did you talk to John Denby?”
“I did, and he had some questions.”
“Shouldn’t you have been the one asking him questions?”
“I was. I took his statement.”
“Did he deny it?”
“Yes, he denied having anything to do with Blythe’s disappearance. And he said he was out and about doing all of his normal activities every day of the last seven days. He’s not happy with me, but”—she takes a deep breath—“that just comes along with the job. I have to do what I have to do.”
“So, he’s a suspect?”
“I would say . . . I haven’t eliminated him as a suspect. But he is not a prime suspect by any means.”
“Did you ask him about his clean pickup truck?”
“I did,” Mom says. “He said he cleaned it up to get a trade-in price on it.”
“That’s the same as he told Ben.”
“He says he can give me the name of the man he talked to at the dealership. That pretty much makes it impossible for him to drive to Houlton. I told him not to go anywhere but really, where’s he going to go?”
“You’ll watch him?”
“No.”
I sink down into a guest chair. John Denby has an alibi.
I’m a little swayed by it.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, when you go to Rook River to the lab, will you give me your keys to the houses so we can check them inside?”
She swivels around to face me and sighs. “I can’t, Quinnie.”
“Why not?” It almost comes out as a whine, but I get control of it midway through and twist it back into a calm question.
“Two reasons. First, it wouldn’t be safe for you to do it. And second, the only people authorized to enter those premises are the agents of law enforcement or fire and rescue. And the rental agent. That’s me and me.” She leans back in her chair like she has more to say and is considering how to say it. “Besides, you’re not qualified to do a proper search.”
It comes out in whisper of finality, like she wants to get me out of the investigation.
“But I’m the one who told you she was kidnapped.”
“Yes, but it was Blythe’s letter that persuaded me something was actually wrong. We’re here. It’s serious. And you’re a child—not a child-child, but you know what I mean. I can’t have you in the middle of this. It wouldn’t be professional—”
“Professional!” I lose it.
“Or safe.”
I can feel a rage coming on, but I don’t fume or flail. I don’t stomp or scream. I say, “What do I get to do? I have to do something.” The first part may be a question, but the second is a fact.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she says, “and one thing you can do is call back all the people who left messages and record their statements. I’ll give you a list of questions to ask, and you record the answers on the phone. That way I can listen to everything they say.”
“Like something a stupid computer could do.”
She closes the file on her desk and stands up. “I’m going to ignore that. And I’m going to go up to bed.”
“Mom?”
She pauses. “What?”
“What questions did Ben’s uncle John have?”
“I can’t tell you, Quinn. It’s part of the official investigation file. I’ll just say that he had many of the same questions we all have.”
“Does that mean he suspects Owen Loney too?”
“No! Enough, Quinnie. Enough.”
I follow her up the stairs. Before she closes her bedroom door she says, “Tomorrow, Quinn, and until this is over, stay away from Blythe’s house and grounds. Understand?”
“Fine,” I say, but I don’t mean it one bit.
“Let me put it this way: if Blythe has been kidnapped, and you interfere with the crime scene, that could be obstruction of justice.”
“I get it. I get it,” I yell. And the reality blooms that looking for Ms. Stillford might turn me into a criminal. And drag Ben along with me.
I expect Mom to start threatening me with jail time, but then the phone sings.
“Hello? Yes? Yes, Chief.”
I hover, listening to her conversation until she walks back down to her office and shuts the door.
21
Clothes are strewn around my room, and the bed hasn’t been made in four days. The lights from the top floor of the convent are already blasting through my window.
I refuse to believe she’s in the marsh.
I keep going over it in my mind. If Ms. Stillford isn’t being held in a house along Mile Stretch Road—and she for sure isn’t at Horror House—she has to be somewhere very close to home. How do I know this? Because I have good instincts, like Mom. It’s in my DNA.
My phone pings with another text message. It’s from the same unfamiliar number.
The fact that doesn’t fit is the one that matters most.
Now I’m sure it’s Ella. It has to be more Monroe Spalding. But still, what if it’s from Ms. Stillford? N
o. She’d text, HELP I’ve been kidnapped. Her call number would come up on my phone. Is it from her kidnapper? Is this some kind of sicko—
Knock-knock. “Quinnie?”
It’s Mom. I’m not sure why, but I slip my phone under the covers before she opens the door.
“The chief of police from Portland just called. He says he’s sending us ten additional searchers for tomorrow. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Thanks. That’s good.”
“Yes. It is. But I’ll still be going to the lab tomorrow with the scarf and the cigarette butts.” She opens the door a little wider and leans against the doorframe. “One of these days you have to start school—”
“Mom—”
“I know. I know. But Ben’s going back to school tomorrow, and I thought maybe you and Mariella—Ella—could get together here, at our house, and just talk about a book you’ve both read. How’s that? It’s something.”
I’d forgotten all about school. Well, not really. I just hoped Mom had forgotten about it. Guess not.
“Okay.”
“Good night. I love you,” Mom says. She doesn’t move.
“I love you too,” I say because I know that’s what she wants to hear. And I think about how Ms. Stillford always says, “Name the feelings.” So I add, “But I’m mad at you.”
“I understand,” she says and shuts the door.
I pull my phone out from under the covers and stare at the text message:
The fact that doesn’t fit is the one that matters most.
If this is from Ella, and if it’s from one of her dad’s books, maybe I should check out that book.
I read the text again and concentrate on what it means. Which fact doesn’t fit? That Owen Loney wouldn’t let the searchers in the pound? No, that actually fits with him being the kidnapper. That John Denby wanted to search alone? No, that fits with him being the kidnapper. The cigarette butts? That doesn’t fit with Owen Loney or John Denby because they don’t smoke. Is that it? What am I looking for—the profile for being the kidnapper or the profile for not being the kidnapper?
And what is the cleverest lie? That John Denby cleaned his pickup for a trade-in quote? It may be the truth. That Owen Loney says the Blythe Spirit’s engine needed an odd part? That’s too easy to check.
I give up trying to puzzle out the text messages and start planning my investigation for tomorrow. I’ll ask the sisters at the convent about the nun in Ms. Stillford’s letter; maybe they know some other nuns, some other convent between here and the border. Next, I’ll stake out Owen Loney’s Lobster Pound. He may be hiding her on his boat. Then I’ll go back to Ms. Stillford’s house.
My nerve withers when I think of how furious Mom will be if she finds out I’m doing any of this. But if she’s going to shut me out, I guess I’m just going to have to run my own secret investigation to be sure all clues are followed, not just the official clues in the official investigation file. I’ll investigate all suspects, even upstanding members of the community whose initials are O and L. No matter how mad this might make Mom, she’ll be glad in the end that I did it. She’ll thank me when Ms. Stillford is safe.
That’s when I remember Ben’s going to be in school, and I really will be alone in my investigation unless . . . annoying as it might be . . . I ask Ella to help me. That makes me think of Zoe, and that tightens a knot in my belly. When I need Zoe the most I’ve ever needed her, she’s not here. Instead, Mariella Philpotts is sleeping in Zoe’s room, with her crazy shoes, her green eye shadow, all that mouthing off about Monroe Spalding. At least she’s interested enough to send me detective advice by anonymous text.
I pull my covers over my head to block out the convent lights and the noise of the surf. Every night of my life, as long as I can remember—until last Friday night—I’ve gone to bed knowing Ms. Stillford is a half-mile away. When I think about what might be happening to her, I want to rub my rock in my fingers, but I can’t. I’ve lost it. A week ago, I would have looked for that silly rock until I found it. Now, I don’t have time to worry about it.
* * *
Screech. Screech. Screech. A seagull squabble on the beach the next morning draws me out of bed.
I throw on my clothes from yesterday, drag a comb through my hair, and run downstairs.
There’s a note on the kitchen table.
Quinnie,
When I get home, you and Mariella should be having your book talk. Please let her know.
See you at 3.
Love, Mom
Three o’clock seems a lifetime away. I have so much to do. I need to get started. I’m anxious but I’m not afraid.
I walk into Mom’s office.
I hesitate a second and consider the consequences of what I’m about to do. Then I shake them off and walk to her key drawer. The baggie marked Stillford 6 Circle Lane is on the top of the heap. There are two identical keys inside it. I slip one into my pocket—into the spot where my rock always used to be.
* * *
“We have to have a book talk this afternoon,” I tell Ella when she answers the door. Today she’s wearing even darker green shadow.
“Did they find her?” she asks. “What’s a book talk?”
“No, they didn’t find her, which is good considering where they were looking.” It feels weird to be standing outside Zoe’s door instead of going in. “My mom says if we can’t start school, we should at least be talking about a book we both read.”
“You want to come in and pick one out?”
“Maybe later. Now I have some investigating to do.”
“Can we go up to my room first?”
I really don’t have time, but I’m too curious about what she’s done to Zoe’s room to pass up a look. “Okay.”
She waves me to follow her. “This way.”
“I think I know the way.”
The furniture is Zoe’s, but entirely different stuff has exploded all over the room. Dark and sparkly stuff. Little nail polish bottles with shades like Elfin Forest Green, Deep Space Blue, Moriarty Red. Plastic bins filled with jewel-toned eye shadow pots. Coffee mugs blooming with makeup brush bouquets.
Ella’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a spiraling psychedelic snail. I look at the shoes in her closet. Gold lamé ballet slippers, red patent leather pumps with glass heels, purple leopard-patterned slippers. She definitely has unusual taste in footwear. She picks silver sequined high-tops and grabs a hoodie with skulls on the front. I’m pretty sure Ben would be frightened by the sequins. He’d definitely stare at the skulls.
“I’m going to the convent to ask the sisters some questions.”
“Cool,” Ella says. “I’ll go with you. I’ve never been inside a nunnery.”
She didn’t even give me a chance to ask her to come along.
“We won’t go inside,” I tell her. “They never let anyone past the front door. We’ll stop at Gusty’s and get a pie for them.”
I try to sound casual when I bring up the mysterious messages. “Hey, I got your texts.”
“What texts?”
I take out my phone and hand it to her. She reads them and hands it back to me. “Who are they from?”
“Uh, you. That’s who.”
“Nope. Not me. But it’s not bad advice.”
“It’s kind of stupid advice if you ask me, since I don’t know if it’s a fact that doesn’t fit the suspect or doesn’t fit the non-suspect. And how do you know which lie is the cleverest if you don’t know the truth?”
“Maybe you should ask your Ouija board.” She thinks this is hilarious. Which it kind of is. But I’m a little irritated that she didn’t admit to sending the texts. And if she really didn’t send them, then I’m kind of freaking out. Nah, it must be Ella. Yeah, it’s her. I’m sure it is.
22
Dad’s happy to give us a pie for the sisters. He’s in such a peppy mood with all the business that he’s pouring free coffee for everyone in the café.
While I wait for him to box up
the pie, I look around at the volunteers, chowing down before they start the search again. If Ms. Stillford saw this, I don’t know what she’d think. She’d be happy so many people came out to look for her, but she’d be sad she had to be looked for.
It’s chilly when Ella and I take off for the convent, and the warm pie box feels good against my fingertips. I hand Ella a copy of the letter from Ms. Stillford.
“Read this.”
She walks and reads it, then reads a second time. I’m expecting her to say something but she doesn’t.
“Do you think he was making her write it?” I finally ask.
“My dad would say she’s trying to send a message.”
Groan. Not Monroe Spalding again. “And he knows this how? Because he writes crime books? I mean, what do you think?”
“He says he puts himself in the position of each character and feels what they feel.”
I’m beginning to think I made a mistake bringing Ella along. As we get closer to the convent, she goes on about how people are murdered and fingerprints and DNA and time of death determinations and rigor mortis. Apparently, Ella knows everything there is to know about solving crimes. I interrupt her. “So you know this because your dad is a crime writer?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “And I suppose you haven’t learned anything from your mom the sheriff?”
“Yeah, I know some stuff from being a sheriff’s daughter.” I could say there’s a big difference between real life and crime novels, but I decide to shake it off.
“Watch,” I say. We round the bend in the weedy driveway, and the dilapidated convent building comes into sight. Blue and gray clouds roll over the roof, spilling around the chimneys.
“What?” Ella says.
“The sisters have some special nun way of knowing when someone is coming, whether you walk in from the street or up the beach. It’s like nun-sense.”
Ella rolls her eyes.
“I didn’t make that up,” I admit. “Ben did.” But before she can take the opportunity to ask me anything about Ben, the sisters prove me right. The front door opens, and Sister Ethel sticks her head out.
The Maypop Kidnapping Page 10