Front Page Teaser

by Rosemary Herbert

  Perplexed, Liz moved on to the next message from kinnarddoc@northeastern.edu: “Poinsettia productive. Need sample for comparison. Tir Na Nog tonite at 7?—CK”

  It was clear the message was from Cormac Kinnaird. But what was ‘Tir Na Nog’? Liz returned to her desk and picked up the Boston Area phone book. Sure enough, Tir Na Nog was listed at an address in Somerville. She dialed the number. It was not yet open at eleven in the morning, but a recorded message revealed it was an Irish pub. “Why didn’t I think of inputting the pub name on the Internet?” Liz scolded herself. Without ready access to the system, such Internet use simply didn’t occur to her.

  Liz returned to the library to reply to Cormac Kinnaird’s e-mail message. The PC was occupied.

  “What else is new?” she asked herself as she sat down at a small table and opened the envelope of photos. The first few pictures were of Veronica and Erik selecting, sawing down, and dragging away a tree at a Christmas tree farm. The next handful were of New York City street scenes, including a shot of traffic passing by a large building, a photo of a chestnut vendor and newsstand, a much better-framed shot of Ellen standing in a city street with a skyscraper completely filling the background. Then there was an indoor shot showing a restaurant table with a chic woman seated at it and another shot of the same woman and Ellen raising their glasses in a toast. Finally, there was a photo of the two women dwarfed by a large, globe-shaped sculpture, and another of the two carrying shopping bags, standing before one of the lion statues at the New York Public Library.

  There was also an enlargement from one of René’s photos taken in the Johanssons’ kitchen. What Liz saw in it caused her to ask the editorial assistant using the PC if she’d be done with the machine soon. This was a break in protocol. By unspoken agreement, reporters did not hound one another here, since they all could appreciate how much time had been spent—and wasted—in waiting for a turn to look at e-mail or to use the Internet.

  But even inconveniences can sometimes turn out to be opportunities in disguise. Liz took the time to make a Xerox copy of Ellen’s taxi receipt. Placing the original in one of the Banner’s business envelopes and placing that in her purse, she used scissors to trim down the copy to the same size as the original. Then she crumpled it a little bit and flattened it out again, and stored it in the manila envelope with the photos.

  Fortunately, Liz soon had her chance to reply to Kinnaird’s message. “Tir Na Nog at 7 looks fine,” she wrote. Then she stopped by the city desk, let Jared Conneely know she would be out on assignment, and made her way downstairs, along the inky hall and into the snow-heaped parking lot.

  The snow there was filthy, but once Liz was out of town driving west along Route 16, the white stuff did a great deal to beautify the roadside landscape. It also became deeper as Liz put more miles between herself and Boston. After passing through part of the Wellesley business area, she saw children sledding down large hills on her left. The timeless scene made her think of Veronica, who had asked one of the Santas she had evaluated to bring her a toboggan. Then the Wellesley College campus entrance appeared on her right. Turning in at the gate, she noticed that the faculty club was immediately on her left. She was so early for her appointment that she went inside, looking for lunch. When it became clear Liz had no faculty I.D. card, the maitre d’ made his disapproval evident, but when Liz showed her press card and she said she was on assignment on campus, she was shown to a seat near the kitchen.

  After enjoying the best meal she had consumed in many days—lobster bisque, crab cakes, and spinach salad—Liz changed into sports leggings in the ladies’ room. They were at least a little bit warmer than her skirt. Back at her car, she traded fashionable boots for a pair that was insulated. Then she set out to find and follow the lakeshore.

  Even in the harsh winter conditions, the Wellesley College campus could only be described as the lap of luxury. Wrought-iron pole lamps, curved over at their tops and holding glass-paned lanterns like dangling gems at their ends, added grace and contrast to a landscape where every tree and shrub was blanketed in snow. The lake, too, was white with ice, except for a slate-gray segment of open water where some swans swam so gracefully that they might have been placed there by central casting to add elegance to the scene.

  Wading through eighteen-inch-deep snow, Liz crossed a small stone footbridge that arched over a frozen stream. Then she walked over a meadow until she reached the lakeshore path. It was clear from footprints that others had gone before her—people and dogs on foot, and one skier, too—but not very many of them. Liz wondered if Olga Swenson was among them.

  But Liz remained a solitary figure in the landscape. After about a quarter of an hour, she came to an open fence with a large sign on it: PRIVATE PROPERTY BEYOND THIS POINT. NO TRESPASSING AFTER SUNSET. PLEASE KEEP ALL DOGS ON LEASHES.

  Reminded of Olga Swenson’s warning, “My dog can be protective,” she earnestly hoped the animal would not be loose in this remote spot. Passing through the fence, she saw hundreds of conifers planted on the undulating landscape to her left. They took many shapes and sizes, from classic Christmas tree contours to weeping and prostrate forms. Fascinated, Liz realized this was a collection of trees.

  Then the landscape opened up on a visual surprise. Fronted by a lakeside marble balustrade ornamented at each end with a marble urn, a hillside sloping up to the left was graced with perhaps a hundred carefully pruned topiary trees and shrubs. Some towered more than thirty-five–feet high, trimmed like fat bullets pointing skyward, with cutaway sections adding whimsy to their disciplined silhouettes. Others looked like lopsided lozenges resting on the hillside. Still more had the appearance of sugared gumdrops, bowler hats, or fantastically large chess pawns. As Liz stopped in her tracks and gazed at the topiary, the sun broke through the clouds and caused the ice and snow that frosted them to sparkle.

  Dazzled, Liz stood transfixed, until she was startled by a panting sound behind her.

  A dog, straining at his leash.

  The owner appeared to be more tentative about the encounter. If her carefully coiffed silver chignon was any indication, she looked to be in her late sixties.

  “Wesley Hightower’s Pinetum and topiary garden,” the woman said, pulling hard at her dog’s leash. “Is this your first visit, or do you find, as I do, that each time you come upon this place, it takes your breath away?”

  “It’s my first visit. But I’m sure this is not the only time this sight will leave me breathless.”

  “Then you don’t know the story behind the landscape?”

  “I’m afraid not. But before coming upon this group of sculpted trees, I passed through a collection of conifers in their natural forms.”

  “You know something about trees, then. Most people just think of those trees as ‘pines.’”

  “I would call them ‘pines,’ too, but I can see that there are many varieties here. I’d love it if you’d tell me a little bit more about this place, if you have the time.”

  “Liz Higgins, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Olga Swenson. And this is Hershey. Silly name, I know, but Veronica insisted on it.”

  Liz couldn’t help noticing that, for all his straining at his leash, the chocolate-brown Labrador retriever was wagging his tail to beat the band. His breathlessness, at least, was occasioned by friendliness.

  “How is Veronica?”

  “Sad. Then excited, despite herself, about Santa. And then sad. Very mixed.” Veronica’s grandmother looked about her and seemed to gather strength from an environment she evidently knew well.

  Certain Olga Swenson would tell her more about Ellen if she could first talk about her passion for this place, Liz bent down and patted Hershey while looking at the older woman expectantly.

  “You know, four generations of Hightowers marked their wedding anniversaries by pruning this topiary. Wesley High
tower told me he could always remember how many years he had been married by counting the times he had pruned these trees. He died just a year ago, but not before adding and labeling hundreds of trees to the collection started by R.T. Hightower, Wesley’s great grandfather. R.T. made his fortune in shipping and used it to build the mansion on this property and to indulge his passion for conifers. R.T. took his own collecting trips to China and other eastern climes that are remarkably similar to our own, and he sent men to collect conifers for him. And by allowing us access to the property, Wesley—and now his widow—are sharing their remarkable legacy.”

  “How long have you known this place, Mrs. Swenson?”

  “Since we moved here, shortly after Ellen was born.” She gulped in a breath and paused to compose herself. “We have a house on this lake, farther along the shoreline. When Ellen was a girl, I was not quite a stay-at-home mother, since I was active in a number of charities and my garden club. We had a nanny helping us out. But Ellen and I always had our Thursday afternoons together, just the two of us. We called it ‘Our Afternoon.’ And more often than not, no matter what the season, we’d stroll along here with our dog. Wesley discouraged public picnicking here, but he made an exception for Ellen and me. He allowed us to sit in the summerhouse you see there, with our sandwiches. When the weather was fine, we sometimes took along books and I read to Ellen. As she got older, we read our own novels side-by-side. I always think it’s no mistake Ellen became a librarian and married an environmentalist.”

  “And became such a good mother, too. Now I know where she got the idea of spending a mother-and-daughter afternoon on a regular basis with Veronica. Has there been any word at all from Ellen?”

  “Not a one. And I hope that goes for any words I share with you. Not one will be printed in the paper. I’m talking to you strictly to give you background information. I hope I may have your word on that.”

  “Yes, of course. Any insights you can provide may be invaluable. May I ask, what made you consider talking with me? Was it because I know Veronica?”

  “She did press me to see you. But that didn’t decide me. It was because you spoke of Ellen in the present tense. You wouldn’t believe how many people—officials and even close friends—talk of her as if she is not just missing but gone. Gone forever.”

  “Not her friend Lucy Gray, surely. And not me. From what you are telling me, it seems Ellen enjoyed an idyllic girlhood. And her home and family life certainly present a good impression. Was this the whole story, Mrs. Swenson?”

  “I feared it would come to this. You want me to dig up some dirt on Ellen or her husband, just like the rest of the media.”

  “You’re a gardener, Mrs. Swenson. You know you can’t cultivate anything without getting your hands dirty. The result itself doesn’t have to be filth, however. It might be something quite beautiful, in fact—like the truth.”

  “That’s very prettily put. Your talents are wasted in a tabloid. But where will your pretty words lead me, and Erik, too?”

  “I hope they will take us to Ellen.”

  Olga Swenson shivered. She turned and began to walk to the far side of the topiary garden, making no objection as Liz stayed by her side. She remained mum as the pair passed masses of rhododendrons, their leaves curled as tightly as profiteroles against the cold. Liz imagined the mother and daughter laden with picnic basket and picture book, rejoicing in the flowers that would bloom here each June. Was the scenario too good to be true?

  With footfalls softened by the snow, only the sound of the dog’s panting disturbed the peace as the women followed the wooded lakeshore. When Ellen’s mother picked up her pace, Liz was grateful, for the increased speed helped warm her. A quarter of an hour passed in this manner before Liz sensed the silence had become a companionable one. Then the older woman struck away from the shoreline up a small rise to the basement door of a stone and wood-shingled house. Nodding an invitation to Liz, she stepped inside to wipe Hershey down with an old towel.

  “Would you mind waiting in the mudroom?” she asked, and disappeared up a stairway before Liz could reply.

  There was nowhere to sit, so Liz stood as she surveyed the large workspace. While the New Englanders of her acquaintance tended to term an unheated porch or perhaps a vestibule “the mudroom,” this one existed on a much grander scale. It contained a large potting bench stocked underneath with bags of potting soil, vermiculite, sand, and peat moss. Another potting bench stood nearby, apparently used for flower arranging. Beside it were shelves packed with unusual vases. On the floor nearby, even in the dead of winter, stood a half-dozen French florist containers made of dust-colored aluminum, holding cut flowers fading on their stems. It seemed likely they were purchased before—and had not been touched since—Ellen’s disappearance.

  “Coast clear,” Olga Swenson said from the top of the stairs. “I wanted to be sure Erik had not returned with Veronica yet. Thank you for waiting. Come on upstairs and warm yourself.”

  Following her hostess’ lead, Liz removed her boots and padded, in her stocking feet, up the steps. Mrs. Swenson looked on approvingly and pulled a pair of terrycloth slippers from behind her back, offering them to Liz when she reached the landing.

  It was the sort of house in which one “retired” to a sitting room where a fire was laid ready to blaze at the flick of a match. The matches were some ten inches long, and they were kept in a brass match holder permanently attached to the stone fireplace. Kindling and extra logs stood end-up in brass containers, too. These objects spoke more of comfort than money. While a professional no doubt laid the fires and cleaned the room, the brass wore the patina of age and usefulness. “Not a bad goal for any one of us to aspire to,” Liz reflected.

  “My husband always prided himself on laying the perfect fire,” Olga Swenson said. “He’d never have been able to admit our housekeeper can do as well.”

  “Where is your husband now?”

  “He may be safely spoken of in the past tense. He drowned in the lake twenty-six years ago. It was the beginning of the end.”

  “Oh, how awful! How old would Ellen have been at the time?”

  “She was just eight years old.

  “The same age as Veronica is this year.”

  “Of course I’m haunted by that coincidence. I can’t bear the thought of Veronica suffering as my Ellen did. That’s why I’ve decided to talk with you. In confidence. I beg you, in confidence.”

  Liz nodded.

  “You’re an unusual woman,” Mrs. Swenson said.

  “How is that?”

  “You don’t ask the obvious. Yet I feel drawn to answer your unvoiced questions.”

  Liz held her peace.

  The widowed woman crossed the room to a sideboard.

  “Madeira?” she asked. “Or, have you got beyond that?”

  It sounded like a line in a drawing room comedy. But the seriousness of Olga Swenson’s expression erased that impression immediately.

  “Madeira sounds lovely.”

  “Yes, the word is melodious. But you’re thinking, ‘The drink may loosen her tongue.’”

  Liz only smiled and took the small glass from her hostess’ hand.

  “I thought I’d go to my grave with the information I’m about to share with you.”

  “Now you won’t do that alone. I will take it to my grave, too.”

  Mrs. Swenson considered her glass. Then she set the drink down, untasted, on the table beside her chair.

  “My husband’s drowning was ruled accidental, and it may have been. But that does not mean it was not complicated.”

  Liz resisted the urge to lean forward.

  “It so often seems to me the English language lacks the capacity for shades of meaning that you find, for instance, in French. No, I’m not going to break into another language. Don’t worry. English suffices to desc
ribe Karl’s state on the day he died. He was beside himself. Pure and simple. Beside himself.”

  “May I assume that was unusual for him?”

  “Not entirely. I’d seen him that way when Ellen was born. When the night-blooming cerius came into flower. When our whippet died after lapping up antifreeze in the garage. When Ellen shot her first skeet into smithereens. At times of great emotion.”

  “What caused him to be beside himself that day?”

  “It was Ellen. He had to know it wasn’t her fault. She was only eight years old. I kept telling him, she’s only eight years old!” Olga Swenson said. “But he was so sure she’d sought to tease. Ellen was an early bloomer. Some girls are these days, you know? But within her generation she was very early. She was at that stage my generation reached at around thirteen years old. You know, more than prepubescent.”

  “If she caught the eye of some man, she would not have been the first to do that at a younger than expected age. Why was your husband so distraught?”

  “Karl came upon them in the Pinetum. Under a weeping cypress.”

  “He came upon whom?”

  “Ellen and Al, one of the young men from across the way.”

  “‘Across the way?’”

  “The school for delinquents, near the property where the Massachusetts Horticultural Society is headquartered now.”

  “Ellen and this young man were under a tree together?”

  “No. Karl was under the tree. He was spying on them.”

  “They were not aware of your husband’s presence?”

  “Not at first. I had the impression Karl caught the boy ogling Ellen. When she heard Karl and Al arguing, she ran and got me. That’s how I know how she was dressed. She’d been running along the shore, like a little bird. She seemed to have no idea of the nature of the argument. I calmed her down, helped her change her clothes, and sent her off to her skeet-shooting lesson before I went over to the Pinetum. By then, Karl had his hands around the young man’s neck. If I hadn’t been there, he’d have killed the fellow, I have no doubt.”