“The purse is a higher-end Dooney & Bourke, if that helps,” Doug volunteered.
Joanne sat down and pressed her fingertips against her temples. “She had a black purse, but I can’t say one hundred percent it’s hers.”
Russell dipped the washcloth into the steaming water. “There wasn’t anything else in the immediate area. And we wanted to get out of there. If she’s dead—”
Joanne stood up. “Don’t say that. Don’t.”
“We had to leave. It was completely dark, but there was no body, Joanne. Not right there. So there’s hope,” Doug offered.
Russell ran the cloth over his face. “Exactly. But I’m wondering about the contents of the purse. Why dump it?”
“Maybe she just grabbed her wallet and ran,” Joanne jumped in.
Both men looked at her. “Really? Someone’s after you and you’re running, so you stop to take your wallet and leave your purse?” Russell asked. “Why?”
Joanne started to pace and then grabbed her hair in her fists. “Too much. We got Ava gone. We got someone with Claire’s phone calling this one, talking in French. We got the weird nun that got away. We got Polaroids. We got four dead men. And we got no clues.” She stopped and turned, going in the other direction. “Something connects all of this, you know? Something terrible. Ava wouldn’t just leave.”
“So the phone call—play the message for us,” Doug asked.
She placed the phone onto the table and turned it on. The apple appeared and then the standard black screen filled with icons followed. Joanne found the message and pressed “Play.” “Nous avons besoin de parler,” “Oh shit,” and then nothing. She played it three more times, looking at Russell and Doug expectantly.
“When I called back, someone answered, then hung up. I shouldn’t have said anything to her, and I’m sorry. I was freaking.”
Russell had finished washing and was drying with the towel. “Call back again.”
“Really?”
She pressed the “Call Back” button and held her breath. The phone rang. It was still on. It went to voicemail. She tried again with the same result.
“The phone is still on and charged. Let’s leave a message,” Russell said.
“Seriously? What message are we leaving? ‘Weird French woman, why are you calling Ava’s phone? Where is she? Do you own an old Polaroid camera?’” Joanne said.
Doug laughed. “How about, ‘We need you to call back. We have important information about Ava’? If she called, she’s looking for her too.”
“And who’s making this call? Me? I’m calling this psycho? Which then means the phone needs to stay on to get a call back. I’m not having this phone traced to my house.” She jabbed at Russell with her finger. “Or next you’ll be finding my purse buried in the Pine Barrens. Which, by the way, I bought at Target on sale.”
They both laughed. “I can take the phone,” Russell offered. “It doesn’t matter who answers it when she calls back.”
“So you leave the message.” She pushed the phone to him.
He picked it up and called. The phone rang again. This time it didn’t go to voicemail. Russell heard the line pick up. He was startled but he jumped in quickly. “Hello, you don’t know me. I’m a friend of Ava’s and I’m looking for her. Do you know where she might be?” He said it quickly. There was silence, but the line didn’t click off. “She left her phone. That’s why I have it. Do you know her?” Russell heard small breaths at the other end of the line. “Anything you know would be helpful.” He heard noise in the background that sounded like a public area, commotion, a racket. Then the line went dead.
“Shit.” Russell hung up. “They wouldn’t say a word. But I’m going to call and leave a message anyway. Maybe they’ll call back when they’re ready.”
Joanne reached out and turned the phone off. “No. They have nothing on us but the sounds of our voices. No names, no addresses. Nothing. Let’s not jump into this. Whoever that is? They didn’t want to talk. And they’re not going to change their mind tomorrow.”
“French-speaking female means Marie or Anais. I vote Anais. She’s closed up her house, not answering her phone. She must be in the US,” Doug said. “Either way, it seems they don’t know where Ava is.”
“Or it’s Claire,” Joanne volunteered.
Both men looked at her. “So, she didn’t die? Or she brushed off the dirt, climbed out of her grave, and now she’s looking for Ava?” Russell asked.
Joanne studied the edge of the table, refusing to look either of them in the eye. “I have this creepy feeling.” She held up a hand to quiet them. “So let’s keep that way on the back option burner. Okay? And not throw it away yet.”
Russell smiled. “So, either Claire, Marie, or Anais has no idea where she is.”
“So what now?” Doug asked.
“Tomorrow I’m going to Mass in Philly at Saint Francis de Sales. I want to see if there’s anything interesting there—ask old parishioners if they remember the boys or know them,” Joanne said.
Russell stood up. “Sounds good. I’m exhausted and filthy. I’m going home. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
Joanne blocked his path. “No way you’re leaving me here alone. After that phone call. Ava’s purse in the dirt. Uh-uh. No. And the phone was on for a little while—anyone could have traced it right here. No.”
Doug moved past her. “My wife is waiting for me. I’m out.” He pulled on his dirty clothes. “Be careful, both of you. Call me with details.”
Russell ended up making himself comfortable in Joanne’s son’s room, since he was visiting his father. He fell asleep looking at his phone, wondering if he should call Juliette and explain everything or forget it and defend himself in the morning. He chose the latter.
CHAPTER 48
Marie’s senses awoke with the noise, one by one. The sound came to her ears, but it was dim, not recognizable. Then the smells of the Belgian salt air in her dream transformed into dampness with the underpinnings of mold that held up the hotel walls. Her eyes opened and she saw the shadows of the window curtain, the dingy picture of a boat on the water that hung on the opposite wall. She rolled over and pushed herself to a sitting position. The soft tapping came again. Marie was jolted awake in a second. She ran her hand through her hair, her heart beginning to thump against her rib cage, her skin prickling. She clicked on the light and looked at her watch. Three twenty-five in the morning.
She put her feet to the floor, realizing that she’d fallen asleep fully clothed, with her sneakers on. She felt gritty, dirty, and brushed at her clothes as if that would unwrinkle them. After tiptoeing to the door and peering through the peephole, she caught a glimpse of a hand pulling away. But she knew that hand. She unhooked the chain and opened the door, pulling the ghost in, snapping the door shut behind her.
“I cannot believe this,” she whispered. “How are you here?”
She was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt. Her hair was pulled back tight, leaving her face all angles and cheekbones; the dark moleskin coat, the hood edged in fox fur, hung on her body. She’d seen this specter fleeing from Quinn’s.
Marie crossed herself. “Did you crawl from the grave?” She covered her face, afraid to look up. “How is this possible?”
“Thought you were rid of me when you buried me, Sister?” She entered and stood in the middle of the room.
Marie walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind—sitting here waiting for a ghost.” She rocked back and forth. “And here she is.” She gestured to the woman.
“Yes, and I need to stay that way. A ghost. I’ve been roaming around these backwater, backwoods, run-down places for what feels like forever. I can’t do it anymore.”
Marie kept her head down, rocking slightly. “Oh dear God, what’s going on?”
She sat next to Marie on the bed and pulled out a cigarette pack. “I was passing by and saw your car. Perfect timing, I’d say. I need your help.”
She put a cigarette to her lips and lit it.
“I was there, at Quinn’s apartment. I saw his body. But then I saw your body once too, so maybe that means nothing.” Marie pulled her coat to her and rummaged through the pockets. “And I found this.” She showed her the peel-off layer from the film. “Outside on his front patio.”
“Huh. Someone took another photograph. After he died.” She took the film and rubbed it between her fingers.
“You took the photograph,” Marie answered. “I saw you there—”
“Are you sure? Or is this one of your imaginings that you’re famous for?”
Marie said nothing. Her head trembled slightly. “You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy. But I know what I saw.”
She stood and pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from her coat pocket. “You carry film in your pockets. I carry drink. Is there a glass in this place?”
“Look in the bathroom,” Marie responded.
“Never mind.” She unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to her mouth, taking a long swig. “So, do you have any cash?” Marie pulled the bottle from her hand and put it to her own mouth and swallowed. The woman chuckled. “Drinking now, are we, Marie?”
Marie felt the whiskey burn down her throat, then handed the bottle back. “Right to the point. Are you leaving the country? Was that the plan? Anais will never have you there. She won’t help you, you know.”
“No, you don’t know that.”
“Anais has turned a blind eye to the past for how many years? Demanding we settle this mess on our own. Why do you think she’d open her arms now?”
The woman drew on the cigarette and then blew the smoke in a thin stream out the window. “She wasn’t mad at us really, she was just angry at Ross.” Marie studied her, waiting for more, but there were minutes of silence before she spoke again. “So angry at him for what he did to this family when he was alive, and then even angrier at us after he died. There’s no pleasing her.”
“Ross didn’t have to die in all this.” Marie pulled her sweater tighter around herself. “He could have been spared.”
She shrugged. “Someone didn’t agree with that and killed him anyway.”
“You mean you didn’t agree and you killed him anyway. And created this shit storm for the rest of us!” Marie realized she was screaming but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d been waiting to say this for a long time.
“Watch yourself, Marie. That camera is still out there somewhere, and I’m sure there’s more film too. It’s just a matter of finding your door.”
Marie grabbed the bottle back and took a swig. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not looking to fight. We’re in this together, remember?”
Marie shook her head. “Self-preservation has always been your number-one concern.” She took the cigarette and drew the smoke into her lungs. It burned more than the whiskey, and she coughed before handing it back. “Surviving your untimely death and staging a comeback—ingenious. But you’re not going to stick me with this mess, I’m telling you now.” In the dim lighting the ghost’s face was drawn, the skin under her eyes bruised with dark circles. Like something was eating away at her soul.
She lay back on the bed and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Marie.”
Marie glanced over at her. “So who got the photograph of Quinn’s door?”
She sat up. “You, of course. You’re all that’s left.”
Marie’s eyes widened. “And what would the message on this last photograph say? Not that you would know for sure. But guess.” She held the sarcastic tone in her voice.
The woman snorted. Then she tipped the bottle and swallowed as much as her mouth would hold. She screwed the cap back on and put the bottle in her pocket. “Don’t give any of this too much thought, Marie. The squirrels are taking over your brain again. Money?”
Marie nodded. “But first, a few questions.”
The woman nodded. “Go. But be quick.”
“The diary. I found it in the dresser.”
“What about it?” The cigarette was hanging from the corner of her lips for a moment before she pulled on it and then took it from her mouth. “Just ask your question, for God’s sake.”
“The photograph of Loyal’s house. Was in the box with the hippo dress—”
She stood. “That photograph was in with Ross’s things when he died. It’s been floating around the house since then.”
“So what have these past six months been about? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.”
She took a few steps to the middle of the room. “All I can say is Ava’s dead, and though I think it was pretty nasty and gruesome, not the way I would have worked it out, it might just really be for the best. You’ll see.”
Marie’s heart felt heavy. “It was awful and you know it. How we got to this point I’ll never understand.”
“You asked about these past six months? They’ve been about truth. It’s time for it all to come out. All of them—Connelly, Owens, Quinn, and Ross—started something that destroyed my life.” She shook her head violently. “Now enough questions. Cash? Please, Marie?”
Marie flipped open her wallet and started counting. “Is two hundred enough to hold you? I only have seven and I need the rest for myself.”
“I need everything you have.” She dropped her cigarette on the floor, stamping it into the carpet with her heel. “In fact, if you could get more, like a few thousand more, that would be good.”
Marie held the stack of bills in her hand. “What’re you doing with it? Tell me.”
She looked at her watch. “I know a guy who’s willing to do anything for cash, and I need his help.” She reached for the money but Marie held on to it. “Seven hundred might do for a deposit, but I need more, and I can’t exactly access my own bank accounts, can I?”
“Seven-hundred-dollar deposit for what? Thousands for what? What could possibly cost that much? What is it you need done?”
Her face twisted in frustration. “God damn it, Marie.” She ripped the money from her hand. “You don’t need to know.” She took a phone out of her pocket. “I’m keeping it turned off, but I’ll turn it on every day from noon until twelve thirty. Call me. Or leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Then we’ll plan a place to meet. You need to get more money. I’m counting on it.” She stuffed the phone back in her coat. “Watch your back. It’s dangerous out there.” She opened the door and left.
Marie sat staring after her, not sure if the lingering smoke was part of a dream. When she woke up later with the heaviness of whiskey in her stomach and nicotine in her lungs, she still wasn’t sure if the whole thing had been a vision.
CHAPTER 49
Joanne stared at the whiteboard, transfixed. She poured another cup of coffee and checked her computer: 5:32 a.m. She’d been up for an hour, at least, unable to really drift off; she’d had these facts, names, dates twirling around in her head. She’d checked in on Russell, asleep in her son’s room, twisted in the Jedi sheets. The Lego Death Star only inches from his head, his hand on the empty jacket of the Black Ops 2 video game. She’d watched him for a minute, realizing that, though they weren’t that far apart in age, she had no romantic feelings toward him. He was more like her son plus twenty years. The fact that he had actually stayed with her after he’d seen the petrified look in her eye was something she’d never forget.
She considered showering and changing so he didn’t see her in her worn flannel pajamas, hair pulled back from her face, no makeup, again. But after a moment’s contemplation she was back at her desk, running through the facts. The main connection between everything in this mess was the church. The four boys, Loyal, Jack, Bill, and Ross, all went to the same church. The school was an extension of the church—same clergy. She put her chin in her hand and stared, ideas coming and going.
She started her computer and waited for her screen to load. “Let me see,” she muttered. After Googling 1996 in various
phrases connected with Philadelphia, she sat back in thought. “Okay, how about this?” She entered Saint Francis de Sales. The same homepage came up. Then she Googled Saint Francis de Sales school. A second page appeared, filled with children in Catholic-school uniforms laughing, surrounded by adoring clergy.
In the search field for the website, she entered class of 1966. The site used a third-party search engine, and a list of search results popped up.
Joanne stopped and examined each one. Most were connected to class members of the year 1966, with links to mentions of them on other websites. She went down them one by one, getting impatient and bored. She didn’t care if John O’Carroll was recognized by the Pennsylvania Bar Association or if Michael Dugan got his contractor’s license revoked. All of these people were in that same class at Saint Francis de Sales, but not relevant to what she was looking for. She kept going down the page until she saw Bill Connelly’s name pop up. Here we go.
She clicked on it and was redirected to his obituary. She saw his face and full cassock robe, and read the account of his death, anaphylactic shock from allergy. Joanne printed it and moved down the list. The next was Loyal Owens. There were five entries for him. Of course. Because he was obviously murdered. She spent a few minutes reading each article about the murder of the couple, investigations, theories, updates. She printed his obituary and put it to the side.
The next was Ross Saunders—just one link to his obituary. She printed that one and added it to her pile. Her eyes scanned down the page, taking in all the information; most she already knew. When she reached the bottom she noticed a section for comments. Thirty-five people had added commentary underneath the article.
Joanne pushed back and got up, pouring more coffee into her cup. She stretched and rubbed her neck. Let’s see what people had to say about Ross Saunders’s death. Most were classmates who’d added an RIP, or Thoughts and prayers are with the family. But as people had continued to add comments, it became more of a conversation—people adding or responding to what someone else had said.
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