The Dead Place

by Rebecca Drake

  “Right.” The young woman spoke in a whisper, her face solemn. She searched the counter and then under the counter, but came up empty-handed. “It’s not here. I guess it got moved to the back.” She walked through a swinging door and left Kate standing at the counter.

  It was quiet in the little shop, the only sound the hum of the furnace and the drip from a sink in the corner. She played with the rose leaves on the counter, trying to stay calm. It seemed to take so long. What if the girl had decided to call her boss?

  She looked back over her shoulder, but there was no one driving on the snow-covered street. Kate glanced at her watch. It had been just three minutes; it felt like three hours. Surely the girl would come soon. She had to come back out soon. Kate twirled a rose in her hand, watching the blossoms spinning, thinking of the flowers in the photos. They’d found Elizabeth Hirsh’s photo. That meant Elizabeth Hirsh was dead. Dear God, please let Grace be alive. Please let her be found.

  Another minute. A minute, forty seconds. All the photos were carefully arranged to be aesthetically pleasing. It made perfect sense that it was Jerry Virgoli. Only someone with some knowledge of art could arrange that composition.

  Four minutes and thirty seconds. She must have decided to call her boss. Even now she was on the phone with Terrence Simnic, and he was going to have Kate arrested again. There was no guarantee that Jerry Virgoli even got the flowers from this shop. It could just as easily be the first store where she hadn’t been able to see a list. Maybe she should go back there and press the stupid man for the manager’s number. If she got arrested again, Grace would never be found.

  Just as Kate turned to go, the girl came out of the back bearing a computer printout. “Here it is! We’ve got a notebook thing, but I couldn’t find it. I got you a list off the computer. This is the most I could print.”

  She laid the pages on the counter and Kate eagerly took them, running her finger down the list of names. It wasn’t a list of repeat customers, just a record of every transaction over the last two months.

  Again, she couldn’t find the name of Jerry Virgoli. Kate felt the same rush of disappointment she had at the other shop and the same reluctance to accept it. She scanned the pages again and again, going more slowly each time, sure that she was just skipping over it. But his name wasn’t there. The only name that popped out at her again and again was Grace. In every case the customer was Grace Methodist Church.

  The name of the church sounded familiar. Someone she knew attended that church, but who? She thought about it as she scanned the list and then, as she handed it back to the young woman, it came to her. The Beetlemans. Wasn’t Grace Methodist the name of the church that the Beetlemans attended? She thought she remembered Clara Beetleman commenting on it when she’d met Grace.

  “No luck?” The girl looked disappointed.

  “No.” Kate thought hard. Was there any such thing as a coincidence? She pointed at the name of the church. “They seem to order a lot. Who pays for them?”

  “Yep, every week or so they’re here to pick out flowers. Usually it’s a couple of women from the church buying them.”

  “Do you have receipts for that? How do they pay?”

  “Sometimes cash, sometimes check or credit card. Why?”

  “Would you have those receipts accessible?”

  “Yeah, but it’ll take me a few minutes to get to them.”

  While she disappeared into the back a second time, Kate stood at the counter and tried to make a connection. Jerry Virgoli wasn’t anywhere on the list, but maybe he attended the same church as the Beetlemans. It fit his personality that he’d attend a church just so he could get closer to the man he admired. It was possible. Could he be getting flowers from the church?

  The receipts were kept in a shoebox. Kate and the girl sifted through them, quickly eliminating anything that wasn’t connected with the church. It took several more minutes to find anything. “Here’s one,” the girl said finally, handing over a signed credit card receipt. The neat signature at the bottom read CLARA BEETLEMAN.

  “That’s it,” Kate said. “That’s what I needed.”

  “Is that the one who’s got your daughter?”

  “Someone who can help me, I hope.” Kate helped the young woman stuff the slips back into the box. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem. I sure hope you find her.”

  “Me too.”

  Just as Kate got to the door, it suddenly opened bringing in a gust of wind and snow and Terrence Simnic.

  Chapter Thirty

  Terrence Simnic stopped short when he saw Kate, one large hand wrapped around the doorknob, the other holding an empty box. Snow blew in as he stared at Kate, his large, blank face filling with emotion.

  “What are you doing in my shop?” His voice was loud, brusque.

  “I’m just leaving,” Kate said, inching left so she could sneak around him.

  “You’re not supposed to be in my shop,” he said. “I told you! The police told you! You’re to stay away from here.”

  “Yes, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll leave now, okay?” Kate tried to sound calm.

  “Why did you let her in here?” Terrence Simnic demanded, shifting his gaze toward the girl at the counter. The moment his eyes left hers, Kate bolted, dashing past him, their coat sleeves brushing as she ran out the door.

  “Hey, stop!” His bellow was loud enough that Kate flinched, but she didn’t stop. She flew down the snow-covered sidewalk, going so fast that wind singed her cheeks and cold air froze her lungs. She slipped on an icy patch, falling forward, snow scalding her palms, soaking through the knees of her jeans. Ignoring the pain, she sprang up and kept going.

  When she reached the car, she dared to look back, and through the curtain of snow she could see a dark figure moving toward her. The key jammed in the lock. Frantically jiggling it, she finally yanked hard to the left and the lock gave. She shoved the keys in the ignition and hit the lock button, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. She tried again. It coughed and spluttered, but wouldn’t start.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered, staring out the windshield. It was definitely Terrence Simnic, she could see him clearly now, barreling toward her, his large boots smashing through the snow like hammers.

  Her hand shook as she turned the key again and pumped the accelerator. He was closer, closer. She could see his angry face locking eyes with her through the windshield. The engine started with a roar and she yanked the wheel hard to the right, slammed on the accelerator, and leapt forward onto the street just as his hand slapped the driver’s window.

  Simnic jumped off the curb after her, but the car gathered speed, spraying snow, and she watched him retreat in the rearview mirror.

  It was just two o’clock, but the snowstorm had intensified and the light changed. The gray of the sky deepened and the dark, bare trees cast long black shadows across blankets of white.

  She drove toward the Beetleman house praying that Clara would be there, that she’d help her. Clara had known Jerry Virgoli for a long time and she didn’t like him. She had to help Kate. Maybe she knew where he got the flowers; maybe she knew something about him or could help Kate find out something. She’d help. She had to.

  The Beetlemans’ house looked just like it had when they’d hosted the party, only now a fresh coating of snow covered the front lawn and the maple tree out front was bare. The front walk had already been shoveled and salted, and the porch furniture was shrouded in plastic covers for the winter. There was a fir wreath hanging on the door.

  Clara Beetleman opened the door with her usual welcoming smile. “Kate! Hello!” she said, clearly surprised.

  “I need your help, Clara. It’s about Grace.”

  “Of course I’ll help, but come on in out of the snow. You must be freezing!” She pulled Kate’s sleeve, ushering her inside.

  The interior was silent and spotless. The wooden floors and the banisters on the stairs gleamed as if freshly polished. There was a small, decorat
ed tree in the front hall, filled with twinkling white lights. It smelled of pine and furniture polish.

  “Let me take your coat, it’s soaked!” Clara fussed over Kate, helping her off with her coat and pointing out a rubber mat on one side of the door where she could put her wet shoes. “What’s this about Grace?”

  “She’s missing.” Kate bent over to work at the laces of her shoes; they were encrusted with snow. “I think she’s been abducted.”

  “What? Good heavens! Have you told the police?”

  “Yes, yes, but they don’t believe me.” Kate stood up, and suddenly the floor seemed to dip forward and she stumbled.

  “Steady there, careful.” Clara Beetleman’s arm came around her waist, holding Kate up. “Come on, you need to sit down.” Clara led her into the living room, where Kate collapsed on a sofa.

  “You’re as white as a ghost,” the older woman said. “You need something to drink and when was the last time you had anything to eat?”

  Kate tried to think, but her head ached. “I don’t know, I might have had a piece of toast for breakfast?” She had a vague memory of Ian offering her something.

  “It’s no wonder you’re about to pass out.” Clara Beetleman patted one of Kate’s hands. “You just sit right here and I’ll get you something.”

  She bustled away before Kate could protest. It was quiet in the living room. A larger Christmas tree stood in the corner opposite the piano, its thick branches sparkling with colored lights and fragile glass ornaments.

  An antique grandfather clock in an engraved case ticked quietly in the corner. Kate felt the same squeeze of desperation and she couldn’t stay seated, but got up, pacing around the room. She paused at the far window, gazing out at the backyard. Between the leafless trees she could see glimpses of Dr. Beetleman’s studio.

  “Here we are!” Clara Beetleman bustled into the room bearing a heavily laden tray. Kate turned to help her, shifting a pile of books on the dust-free coffee table so the other woman could set it down.

  “There’s cream and sugar, or lemon if you prefer,” Clara Beetleman said, pouring a cup of amber liquid from a fat little ceramic pot into a delicate cup balanced on an equally delicate saucer. She passed it to Kate. “Get some of that into you.”

  The cup trembled in Kate’s hand. She took a sip of scalding tea and then another. “She’s been gone for almost four days.”

  “Oh, Kate, you must be frantic.” Clara Beetleman looked reassuringly grandmotherly in a long red corduroy jumper with her short, graying hair tucked behind her ears. No one would ever accuse her of being crazy. “What are the police doing?”

  “They don’t believe me, no one believes me.”

  “Why?” Clara Beetleman picked up a plate of cookies and held them out. “Here, they’re shortbread, freshly baked. Get some food into you.”

  Kate dutifully ate a cookie. Clara Beetleman took one, too, eating it with small, fastidious bites. Crumbs dropped onto her jumper and she brushed them away with her small, plump hand. A gold ring on her right hand caught the light, the green stone in its center gleaming. The cookie in Kate’s mouth suddenly tasted like sand.

  She swallowed. “That’s a pretty ring.”

  Clara Beetleman glanced down at it. “Thank you. Laurence gave it to me for my last birthday.”

  “Do you know where he got it?” Kate felt as if her voice belonged to another person. She looked at Clara Beetleman, but saw the face of a missing girl smiling out from a photo in the yearbook. She saw Ann Henke, vanished in 2000, her young hands framing a smiling face, on one of them a ring of twisted gold with an emerald stone.

  “I think he found it at an antiques store.” Clara Beetleman poured more tea. Took a sip. “You were saying that no one believes that Grace has been abducted but you?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Beetleman had given his wife the ring. Dr. Beetleman said that Grace was a talented girl, but needed to work harder. Dr. Beetleman said that a girl as pretty as Grace had to be careful.

  “Actually, I think it would help if I talked to Dr. Beetleman. Is he here?”

  His wife shook her head. “He’s in his studio, but I’m under strict orders not to disturb him when he’s out there—it’s one of his little quirks.” She offered a small smile as apology. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with my help.”

  “I’m sure he’d want to know that Grace is still missing.”

  “Oh, so you’ve already told him?”

  “Yes, on the afternoon she disappeared. He didn’t tell you about it?” Kate couldn’t take her eyes off the ring.

  “No, I guess he didn’t want to worry me.”

  Kate stood up abruptly. “I really need to talk to him about Grace. I could just go out there and knock on the door.”

  Clara Beetleman struggled up, letting her cup drop so that tea splashed over the sides and filled the saucer. “Please don’t,” she said as Kate walked toward the door. She moved quickly for such an overweight woman, stepping in front of Kate, her ample body blocking the door. “Really, he gets so upset if he’s disturbed.” Her plump face creased with concern, the cheeks flushed.

  “All right.” Kate looked down at the ring again, then up at Clara Beetleman’s face.

  “Maybe you could tell him I need to talk to him?”

  Clara Beetleman’s face relaxed. “Absolutely, dear. I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in for dinner.”

  “I think I should get going, the snow’s getting worse.”

  Clara Beetleman watched from the front door as Kate trudged through the snow back to her car. She was still standing there when Kate drove away.

  There was an alleyway that ran between the Beetlemans’ street and the one behind it, and Kate went around the block and waited two minutes before turning down it, driving slowly back toward the Beetlemans’ home. She could see the Beetlemans’ car through the window in the detached garage, but there was a fence surrounding the yard itself and the back gate was locked. Over the fence she could only make out the studio’s snow-covered roof.

  Why had Clara Beetleman been so adamant about not disturbing her husband? What was in that studio? He’d given her the ring, the ring he’d taken off one of his victims. But that was impossible! This wasn’t like suspecting Terrence Simnic or even Jerry Virgoli. She suspected Dr. Laurence Beetleman, beloved professor and famed composer, a pillar of the community, of taking her child.

  Nobody would believe her. If she called the police right now, if she pretended to be someone else and reported a tip to go investigate Dr. Beetleman’s studio, she knew exactly what would happen. They’d go and he’d talk to them in his usual, reasonable fashion and they’d go away. And if she told them about the ring? He’d have an answer for the ring, explaining that he’d found it in a store and he’d probably name Mrs. Thorney’s shop, and everybody knew that she wasn’t too careful with the merchandise she got and it could have been sold to her.

  Maybe that was what had happened, but Kate didn’t think so. She had to get in that studio, but if she waited until he emerged for dinner it would be too dark. She needed him out of there now and somewhere far enough away so that she had time to find a way inside.

  If he wouldn’t leave for his wife, what would pull him away? A phone call from Ian would work—he wouldn’t ignore a summons from the dean. As soon as Kate thought this, she discounted it. Ian would never agree; he’d probably have her committed. He wasn’t in anyway—hadn’t he said something this morning about an afternoon meeting off-campus with some important alumni donors? And then it occurred to her that she didn’t really need Ian. She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t three yet. If she hurried, she might be able to beat him back to his own office.

  It was the final day of exams. Students already finished were leaving for the winter break, wheeling suitcases across the snowy quad. The halls of the building were deserted. Kate’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as she took them two at a time.

  Ian’s secretary sat typing at her desktop, the sleeves of her
fuchsia suit jacket hitched back and a pair of rainbow-colored reading glasses perched on her small, upturned nose. She looked up and blinked at Kate. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Corbin!”

  Kate had given up asking to be called by her first name. “Hello, Mildred. Is Ian back from his meeting?”

  “No, not yet.” Mildred checked her own watch. “He’s due back in about thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll just wait for him then.”

  “Of course.” Mildred Wooden popped up from her chair and came around the desk. “If you’d like I can bring you something to drink and we have some magazines to read.” She indicated the waiting area across from her desk.

  “Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll just wait for him in his office.” Kate breezed past a blinking Mildred into Ian’s office and closed the door. There was Ian’s massive desk, all neat and sparely furnished, his silver desktop waiting. She sat down in his leather chair and opened the mail program.

  It took her ten minutes. Keeping an eye on the door, she composed an e-mail about an emergency faculty meeting. Scrolling through his SENT box, she found old e-mails that helped her with wording, and it was a simple matter to find Dr. Beetleman’s address. She hesitated just for a moment over the SEND key, thinking of what had happened with Terrence Simnic. Once she hit SEND, it could not be undone. There was no hope that she could lie about having done it either, not with Mildred Wooden sitting outside. Her only hope lay in the next part of her plan, getting into the studio, and that was much harder.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered, quoting her father’s favorite phrase. He’d been a shy, retiring sort of man, but wouldn’t shy away from adventure if it came to him. He’d said this phrase before venturing down the tougher ski slopes with her or agreeing to backpack through Canada one summer when she was twelve. She wondered for a moment what he would have made of what she was doing and then, taking a deep breath, she hit SEND.

  Chapter Thirty-one