18
All the salmon and crunchy bits from yesterday were gone.
I peered into the darkness under the stairs but saw no evil red eyes staring back at me. No eyes of any other kind, either. And jumping up and down on the porch didn’t bring forth the little monster. I unlocked the front door and went inside to get Derek’s flashlight. I was on my way back out when it occurred to me to look inside the cardboard box we’d placed on the porch, and lo and behold, the kitten was curled up inside in a corner of the box in a nest of old curtains. Of course, as soon as I opened the flaps on top of the box, he or she shot out of the opening Derek had cut, between my legs, and made a beeline for the safety of the underside of the porch again.
Fine. If that’s the way it wanted it.
I filled another bowl with more crunchy bits and cat food, added one filled with clean water, and put them both on the porch in the corner by the box. When I left, the kitten would probably come back out and would eat and go back to sleep inside the box again. Meanwhile, I had more important things to do.
The fog was starting to creep in for real now, trailing white fingers through the trees as I set out for Gert Heyerdahl’s house. The atmosphere was eerie, with a sort of hollow and echoing quiet. Except for the mournful sound of a foghorn somewhere in the distance, and the wind rustling above my head, causing pine needles to whisper and still-bare branches to crack together, everything was still.
There was no sign of life at Gert’s house, and the dock was empty. Calliope was gone. Gert’s caretaker must not be working on Sundays. Lucky break, if one I had sort of counted on. Or at least hoped for.
I climbed the stone steps and peered through the sidelights. The entrance hall looked exactly as it had the last time I was here. Dark and quiet. The door was locked, of course, and no one answered when I knocked. Not that I’d expected anything different.
I stood for a second, biting my lip, thinking about what to do next. The shutters were still covering the windows downstairs, although they’d been turned back from the windows on the second floor. Maybe Gert’s caretaker was doing one level at a time. Or maybe the Russian women had been kept up there, hidden away until Irina came and got them, and now there was no sense in keeping the shutters closed anymore. That didn’t explain why the shutters on the main floor were still closed, of course. It did mean that I would be able to look into the second floor if I could get up to it.
Would I be able to pull Derek’s ladder from our house over here? If I went back and got it? And if I did, would I be able to raise it? Or maybe Gert had a ladder sitting around somewhere? I could have a look around for it, maybe.
Decisions, decisions. I mulled for a second, weighing the time it would take to run back to our house and drag, literally, a ladder all the way back over here against the time it would take to check the property for one. One that might not exist. Just because the place was deserted now didn’t mean Gert’s caretaker wouldn’t be back soon. And it would behoove me to be finished and gone by the time he got here. Unless he was dead, of course. And he might be. Maybe even somewhere inside the house.
Something moved behind the upstairs window. I took a couple of steps back, the better to see. I blinked. Stared. Shaded my eyes. Blinked again.
Maybe it had been just a patch of fog floating by.
No, there it was again. The outline of a person. Between the six-over-six panes and the ancient, wavy glass, it was difficult to make out details, but it looked like a woman. Pale face, long dark hair . . . The ghost of Clara van Duren, or whatever her married name had been? Or maybe Gert had a live-in housekeeper as well as a caretaker, making the place ready for him?
Or could it be Svetlana Rozhdestvensky?
What if I’d been looking at the situation wrong? What if Irina hadn’t gone hiking on the Appalachian Trail with her sister and Katya/Olga? What if she hadn’t run away at all? What if she had come here to rescue Svetlana and the others. Here, where Gert’s caretaker found her and killed her. The way he’d killed Agent Trent? Maybe I’d find Irina’s body floating in the harbor one of these mornings. And now Svetlana was upstairs, with no hope of rescue. While Derek, Josh, Brandon, and Wayne were wasting their time trekking the Appalachian Trail looking for three other women who fit the general description of Irina, Svetlana, and friend.
Given the circumstances, I decided to sacrifice the wavy glass in one of the sidelight panes in order to find out who was upstairs. It would take too long to go back for the ladder, and what if she—whoever she was—needed help? If I used a rock to knock out one of the sidelights, I might be able to reach my hand in and turn the locks and bolts on the inside of the door.
I was on my way up the stoop again, rock palmed and ready, when the door opened.
For a second, my hand wavered as I considered the idea of lifting the rock to use as a weapon in case I needed one. Then my fingers twitched, and the rock dropped. It hit the stoop with a crack and rolled off into the grass. I didn’t watch it. I was staring at the woman in the doorway, my eyes threatening to roll, too, straight out of my head.
“Oh, my God!” I managed. “What are you doing here?”
It was Irina—not Svetlana, Irina herself—dressed, as Arthur Mattson had described, in jeans and a green sweatshirt with the white Maine Association of Realtors® logo on it.
For a moment I wasn’t sure what to do, and more, what to think. I’d always liked Irina, ever since the first time I’d met her. I didn’t want to believe her guilty of what Derek and Wayne suspected her of. At the same time, the fact that my boyfriend and the chief of police thought she was a murderer was sobering. And more than sobering, it was scary. What if they were right and I was wrong? What if I was standing face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer? What if she was thinking of killing me, too?
I took a step back—just a precaution—and stumbled, off the stoop and onto the ground, ending up on my butt on the wet grass.
“Are you all right?” Irina said. She was still standing inside the door in the shaded front hall, where she couldn’t be seen from outside. I don’t know who she was afraid would see her, since we were clearly the only two people here and since visibility was becoming less and less as the fog settled in. By now, even the dock was starting to disappear.
“Fine, thanks.” I got myself to my feet and brushed my rear clean. As well as I could, since there’s nothing anyone can do to brush away water that’s already seeped into fabric. I’d be walking around with a wet bottom for the next few hours until I could make it off the island and into a dry pair of jeans.
“What are you doing here?” I asked again. “I thought you were on the Appalachian Trail.”
Irina blinked. “Why would you think that?”
I moved a little closer, up to the stoop but not onto it. “When you disappeared, Brandon Thomas put out an APB on you. He got a tip that someone who matched your description, and your sister’s, went on the trail yesterday afternoon.”
Irina paled. “My sister?”
“She’s here, isn’t she? Svetlana? In Maine?”
Irina glanced past me, into the fog. She did a sort of sweep with her eyes of the area in front of the house. “Where’s Derek?”
I rolled my eyes. “Where do you think? Hiking the Appalachian Trail looking for you.”
“He let you go out here alone?”
“He didn’t let me. I went.” And what was up with the question, anyway? Was she worried that something might happen to me? Or did she want to make sure I was alone, in case she was planning to do something to me herself? “And you never told me what you’re doing here.”
“You never told me what you’re doing here,” Irina shot back.
I sighed. “Not looking for you. I had no idea you’d be here. I was just having a look around.”
Irina scanned the fog again. There was nothing to see. Just me, standing here with my wet butt and my arms folded across my chest. Her eyes returned to me. “It’s a long story. You’d better come in.”
I stalled. “Do you know about what happened to Agent Trent?”
Irina nodded. I’d been hoping she’d say no; that way at least I’d know she hadn’t had a hand in killing the ICE agent.
“How did you hear?” Had it been on television? Or in the newspaper? Had Tony the Tiger gotten hold of the story and run with it?
“My”—Irina hesitated—“friend was in Waterfield yesterday and heard the news.”
Her . . . friend? “Would that be the guy we saw at Shaw’s Supermarket the other day? When you dropped that jar of tomato sauce?”
Irina nodded. She was still peering worriedly into the fog. “Please come inside, Avery.”
Her fear was infectious, and I found myself looking around, too, the small hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
From out of the fog, the sound of a boat motor reached us. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from or which direction it was heading, but it was getting louder, so at least it was coming closer. Irina twitched. I made up my mind.
“OK.” I may as well go in; she wasn’t coming outside, and she didn’t seem willing to tell me anything while we were standing here half in, half out of the house. Plus, I wanted the opportunity to look around the place. And maybe to see if I could open Gert Heyerdahl’s secret room. If the houses were exact replicas, and ours had one, it stood to reason that his would have one, too.
So I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath and walked through the door, while the chugga-chugga of the boat motor echoed through the fog.
The inside of Gert’s house was fabulous, even in the semidarkness with the shutters closed. Gleaming wood floors, intricate paneling, high-end furniture. Once upon a time, I worked for—and dated—a reproduction furniture maker, very good at what he did, and this stuff looked like it could have come from Philippe’s studio.
“This place is gorgeous.”
Irina nodded, looking around. “Mr. Heyerdahl has a lot of money.”
No kidding.
Aside from the fact that it was finished, and beautifully, the layout of the house was exactly the same as in our house on the other side of the island. Parlor to the right, dining room to the left, tight run-around staircase in the middle with—just maybe—a secret room behind it, accessible from the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Irina asked when I strolled, oh so casually, into the dining room.
“Just having a look around.” I did just that, admiring Gert’s dining room set in dark wood with demure blue, yellow, and white stripes on the cushions. It was tasteful and elegant, although personally, I would have rather seen a pattern of white daisies with bright yellow centers on a spring green background.
The kitchen was updated. Totally, top to bottom. Tile floor, granite counters, stainless steel appliances, brass pots hanging above the island where the stove was. The fireplace was still there, though, and the built-in cabinets next to it. I opened the nearest cabinet door and stuck my head in.
“What,” Irina repeated, her voice more strident now, “are you doing?”
I pulled my head back out again and explained over my shoulder. “In our house, there’s a secret room behind the chimney. I just wanted to see if there was one here, too.”
“I have no idea,” Irina said, folding her arms across her chest. There was a knife block on the counter a few feet away from her, bristling with wooden handles. I glanced at it and then glanced away. Better not to give her any ideas.
The hidden room could wait. I straightened up. “Why don’t we go sit down somewhere. This is going to take a while.”
We ended up upstairs, in one of the bedrooms; the same one where I’d seen Irina’s reflection through the window earlier. She must be staying there, because the double bed looked like it had been slept in, and there was a backpack, empty, tossed in the corner. A sleeping bag, still rolled up, lay next to it. One of the drawers in the bureau was open a crack, where a piece of clothing—what looked like another pair of jeans—had gotten caught and kept the drawer from closing all the way. A hairbrush was lying on top of the bureau, the couple of long, dark hairs caught in the bristles identifying it as belonging to Irina.
She sat on the rumpled bed while I curled up in a small, white chair over in the corner, with a plastic bag tucked under my butt so the mud on my behind wouldn’t stain the pristine whiteness of the fabric. It made a crinkling noise every time I moved. Irina kept her hands tightly folded in her lap and kept shooting glances out the window, where the fog was now pressing against the wavy glass.
I watched her, trying to decide where to start, how to broach the various subjects and questions I had. What to say so I didn’t freak her out or—scary thought—make her feel like she had to do something to shut me up. And there were so many questions to ask, so many things I needed to know. Where was Svetlana? Who was the dead girl in the water? Had Irina killed Agent Trent? Did she know Angie, Ian’s girlfriend?
Probably better to start with something less confrontational, though.
“How long have you been here?”
She glanced around the room. “Here? Since Friday night.”
“I spoke to Arthur Mattson,” I said. “He told me he’d seen you leave and that it looked like you were going camping. That’s why we thought, when we got the tip about the Appalachian Trail, that it might be you. Is Svetlana there? On the trail?”
Irina shook her head, lips tight.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Irina said, and from the expression on her face, I don’t think she was happy about admitting it.
“Have you seen her?”
Another head shake.
“But she’s here? In Maine?”
Irina pried her lips apart. “I think she must be. She’s not in Kiev.”
“But you don’t know where?”
She shook her head.
“The writing on that piece of paper the dead girl had in her pocket? Was it Svetlana’s handwriting?”
Irina shook her head, but not in negation. More like resignation or disgust or despair, closing her eyes for a moment. “I think so. But it was hard to tell. The paper was wet. Everyone else in my family is where they are supposed to be, though. All except Svetlana.”
I nodded. “Did you talk to Agent Trent the other day? Or did you run away—come here—to avoid talking to her?”
Irina’s lips thinned again. “I spoke to her.”
I tried to soften my voice, to sound friendly and nonconfrontational. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Irina said. “She called me at work. Mr. Mattson had told her where I work, and she called the front desk and got transferred. She asked me to meet her.”
“At the Waterfield harbor?” Where Irina had conked her over the head and tipped her into the water?
“In Portland,” Irina said.
“Oh.” I bit my lip, my cheeks pink. Well, duh. That made a lot more sense, didn’t it? Agent Trent had come to Waterfield to talk to Irina, but Irina wasn’t there so Lori Trent tracked her down in Portland instead.
Irina shook her head at me. “You don’t really think that I killed her, do you, Avery?”
“I think the police think so. That that’s why you ran away. So you wouldn’t be arrested.”
“I didn’t,” Irina said.
“I believe you. So what did you talk about? You and Agent Trent?”
Irina sighed, rubbing her hands over her face as if she were tired. She looked tired, with dark rings under her eyes and tight lips. “I told her everything. That it was Svetlana’s handwriting on the piece of paper, that I suspected she and a friend had come into the country illegally and were being held somewhere, and that the friend must have been trying to get away. . . .”
“So you didn’t have anything to do with smuggling them
into the U.S.?”
She shook her head.
“Oh. I thought maybe . . . you know, that you . . .”
“I came here illegally,” Irina said. “Someone contacted me online, through a website I’d signed up for.”
“The Russian-bride one?”
She nodded. “He offered to get me into the United States for a price. I didn’t have the money, so he suggested an alternative.”
“What was the alternative?”
Irina just looked at me, and after a moment, the pieces aligned themselves in my head. Russian brides, attractive women from Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia smuggled into the West . . . to work as prostitutes?
I managed to bite down on the exclamation before it slipped out, though I couldn’t quite keep the shock from showing on my face. Irina looked uncomfortable, ashamed, and then defiant.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “So you told Agent Trent about it?”
Irina nodded. “Everything. How I came here, what happened, all I knew or had learned about the people in charge. It wasn’t much. I spent a few weeks with them, and then I was . . . sold to a man in Skowhegan who was looking for someone to cook and clean and . . . do other things.”
Right. I suppressed a grimace. “Do you know a woman named Angie? Angela? From the Ukraine? Early twenties, very pretty, with brown hair and brown eyes? Pregnant?”
Irina shook her head. “Who is she?”
“Just a friend of a friend. I wonder if she isn’t one of you, too. She’s very skittish.”
Irina nodded. “Traveling halfway around the world for a chance at a new life only to end up in a brothel can do that to a person.”
Mortar and Murder Page 21