There was still the question of forensic news, Liz realized as she drove to Gravesend Street in silence. It remained unclear if Cormac had planned to share more information with her. Well, her e-mail message to him would serve to remind the doctor of that. If it wasn’t going to be a personally satisfying evening tonight, at least it would have been useful to have the forensics information to use on Christmas Day, when she was scheduled to work. Otherwise, she might be sent on another fresh-killed goose chase.
As she approached an all-night store lit up and open even on Christmas Eve, Liz pulled into the nearby parking lot and went in to purchase milk, eggs, and cheddar cheese. On the rack near the cash register, she saw new stacks of newspapers, delivered early for Christmas Day. Probably, the drivers had worked as fast as they could to get them delivered so they could get home to their families. Liz picked up copies of the Banner and the World and made haste to get home, too.
Back at Gravesend Street, she turned on her Christmas tree lights, lit her fireplace, and whipped up a soufflé. Relaxing in her chair with a glass of mead while Elizabethan lute music played on her CD player, she took a look at the newspapers while the dish baked.
The Banner’s front page was taken up with an old engraving of Santa Claus and a printing of the poem The Night Before Christmas. Headed “FAKE ST. NICK HAS KNACK FOR NICKING,” Liz’s story made Page Fifteen. It was accompanied by a photo of the hapless Lucarno, looking thoroughly perplexed, at the police station. The caption read, “BIRD-BRAINED poultry clerk admits aiding Santa look-a-like in Christmas Eve turkey heist.”
On the same page, a small item ran under the headline, “TEACUP PUZZLER,” and the Manning byline. “A teacup found in missing mom Ellen Johansson’s kitchen sink may have held no liquid. But, according to Newton Police Chief Anthony Warner, it contained plenty of inconclusive evidence. ‘The prints on it belong to Mrs. Johansson and two additional unidentified individuals,’ Warner said. ‘It’s unusual to find numerous prints inside and out like this on a drinking cup. But without matches for the other prints, we can’t draw any conclusions here.’
“When Johansson, 34, disappeared December 18, leaving her kitchen full of cookie ingredients splattered with blood, a matching teacup was left on a side table in the living room. The discovery of the teacup in the sink has led police to speculate Johansson was interrupted in serving tea to someone known to her on the afternoon she went missing. ‘We found no evidence of forced entry,’ Warner said, in a December 18 interview.”
Setting down the Banner, Liz went to her desk and took out her envelopes of photos, leafing through them to find the extra photo DeZona had taken of the Johansson kitchen. Evidently, DeZona had climbed on something—perhaps a kitchen step stool—to fire his second kitchen shot, since this photo offered a view into the sink. Sitting in the perfectly clean, stainless steel sink was a delicately patterned, bone china teacup. Liz turned to the living room photo she had recently shown to Faisal Al-Turkait. There was the matching teacup, half-filled with liquid, resting on a saucer. Using a magnifying glass, Liz examined both teacups bearing a design of tiny blue blossoms.
Calling to mind her conversation over tea at Ellen’s house, Liz remembered how Veronica had interrupted it by dropping the teacup. And she remembered, too, her quick glance into the Johansson dining room on the day Ellen disappeared.
Just then, the timer rang and she paused in her thinking to take a perfectly formed soufflé out of her oven. She sliced a tomato over a few spinach leaves, then cut into the soufflé, causing it to collapse with a small sigh, and placed some on her plate. Before taking her late-night dinner to her table, she put some of Prudence’s favorite canned food into a clean dish and set it down for her.
Only then did Liz raise her glass to Prudence and say, “Forget-me-not!”
Liz knew the hastily written words on Ellen’s blackboard were no farewell message. They were just the name of the china pattern. When Veronica dropped her cup, it must have cracked or chipped. That was why there was a saucer lacking a cup in Ellen’s china cabinet. The replacement, which most likely was purchased in Florissa’s Gift Emporium in New York, had been sitting in Ellen’s sink. Any fingerprints inside it were less likely to belong to an intruder in the kitchen than to Ellen, a shop clerk, and perhaps Nadia.
The shop would never be open at this hour, and it would almost certainly be closed on Christmas, but Liz remained eager to know when it would open again so she could ask about the sale of a single teacup. She dialed the number on the gift emporium’s business card and listened to the message—with a music box tune tinkling tinnily in the background—which informed her the shop would reopen December 26.
That meant she could not write a follow-up story about this on Christmas Day and would be stuck covering whatever struck the city editor’s fancy. Unless she found another promising avenue of investigation.
While washing her dishes by hand, Liz let her thoughts flow freely. Just as the “FORGET ME NOT” message meant something different than it first suggested, so must some of the other evidence in this case have been misread. It was time to look at other pieces of information with fresh eyes.
It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when Liz stepped away from her sink and into her bathroom. Stepping out of her clothes, she showered and washed her hair. Then she took out her vial of Fijian coconut oil and slowly spread it all over her body. It would spot her sheets, but they were old anyway, and the pleasure of slicking her skin with oil from two hemispheres different from her own—the eastern and the southern—was too good to resist.
Slipping between her sheets, Liz turned out her lamp and let her gaze linger on the glowing Christmas tree. Finally, she got up and turned the tree lights out. Back in bed, she lay quietly, wondering, Where in the world is Ellen Johansson? while watching the flickering light reflected from her fireplace as it danced across her ceiling.
New York City, December 16, 2000
Samir Hasan was at a loss. Not dressed adequately for dining in the Windows on the World restaurant, he pondered how he could keep his eye on the women there. Then, noticing another man in the elevator holding a plastic bag from the Gap, he asked him if the shop was located nearby.
“Turn right, out of the elevators,” the fellow said.
Fortunately, the sporty shop located on the World Trade Center’s ground floor did carry navy blazers. Along with a pair of new slacks, a pale blue shirt and tie, and a pair of sunglasses, the blazer would make him look both presentable and unfamiliar to his former taxi passenger. Hasan tried on the outfit, then, cursing the time it took to remove and purchase it, he returned to the dressing room and put on the new clothes again. The whole process took some twenty-four minutes. It took another six for him to reach the restaurant.
Luck was with him as a single businessman gave up a table just as Hasan arrived. But the maitre d’ was in no hurry to give him the uncleared table.
“I am in such a haste,” Hasan explained. “I will be closing a business deal shortly, but with the jet lag and no good meal since I departed London, I am ravishing,” he added earnestly, winning a smile at last from the maitre d’.
Shown to the seat, Hasan was asked if he preferred the buffet or the à la carte menu. Following the waiter’s outstretched hand pointing in the direction of a large buffet spread, the cabbie hardly dared believe his luck. There he saw the pale-haired woman approach the sumptuous spread. A moment later, as her friend joined her, Hasan was also at her side, serving himself fruit salad while overhearing the pair’s enthusiastic chatter.
“Isn’t it something, after all these years of being pen pals, to find out how many tastes we share?” the Middle Eastern woman said.
“I can’t get over it!” the fair woman enthused. “Now, tell me Nadia, what is the word for this?” She pointed to a coffee urn.
No speaker of the Arabic language would be at a loss for such a word. Riveted, Hasan
had to remind himself to act interested in the buffet food while he listened for more. He picked up a roll and a pat of butter.
“I know that’s mishmish, but how about these berries?” the fair woman said, pointing to a tray of fresh strawberries.
“I’m not sure of the word for them. We call a wild berry tukki but these look like they are cultivated.”
“Tukki. What a cute word! And easy to remember, too. It sounds a little bit familiar, but I can’t figure out where I’ve heard it.”
Was it possible this shaqra did not understand his language after all? That her knowledge of Arabic was limited to a few phrases she had learned to say when greeting a pen friend? Could it be she not only did not understand but had barely found memorable the code words he should never have discussed over his two-way radio?
Shaken, the cabdriver spilled coffee down the front of his new trousers. When the shaqra turned to help him, he made a little bow and begged her not to worry. When she realized the spill was in the groin and leg area, she seemed glad to move away while a male waiter stepped in to assist.
Hasan was overcome with dismay. Once a mere messenger of code words in a larger scheme, the full implications of which he was not worthy to know, he now found himself asked to eliminate an innocent woman. He knew he had given out the woman’s location. If he did not do the deed himself, it was only a matter of time until Fa’ud’s associates came to help him “take care of” her. Almost paralyzed with panic, he cast about mentally for some solution. Then it came to him. The only thing to do was to empty the place urgently. That might be done by means of a minor fire. Playing up his recently established awkwardness, he managed to dump over a chafing dish full of hot rolls. As they rolled onto the floor, paper doilies running the length of the buffet table burst into fire, ignited by the blue flame of the Sterno can. It was hardly a major conflagration, but nonetheless, it was enough to set off shrieking fire alarms and sprinklers forcing diners to flee the room.
In the exodus, Hasan saw the fair woman become separated from her friend, as the latter was unable to get on the same elevator with her. The friend also did not make it onto the second elevator, which Hasan was able to catch. During the long descent to the lobby, Hasan could only hope he would arrive in time to find the lady. Meanwhile, he prayed to Allah to help him overcome the emasculating inclination to help the woman flee from the danger she was in.
When Hasan finally arrived in the lobby of the World Trade Center, he saw one of Fa’ud’s protégés lurking beside a potted palm. But Hasan’s trendy Gap outfit was not what the operative was looking for. In addition, the arrival of firemen on the scene added to the chaos.
A fireman had already taken Ellen firmly by the arm and maneuvered her away from the elevator bay. So when Hasan gripped her shoulder and, with a hand at the small of her back, urged her forward briskly, she was not entirely surprised.
“This way, ma’am, this way,” he said keeping his face out of sight over her shoulder, as emergency personnel handled other confused individuals similarly. Ellen cried out when he threw open a door and thrust her into a janitor’s closet, but, in the confusion, no one seemed to notice. With the door shut, Hasan turned her to face him and said, “Allah help us. I have made a grievous mistake.”
Chapter 15
Gravesend Street, Allston, Massachusetts,
Christmas Day, 2000
Christmas Day dawned silvery gray and glaring as the sunshine streaked intermittently through oyster-colored clouds. With her hair all haywire because she had gone to bed when it was still damp, Liz took some time to dampen and re-dry her auburn waves, while coffee brewed in her kitchen. After dressing in a black lamb’s wool sweater, black slacks, and a festive gold and cream scarf, she phoned both her mother and Janice to leave them holiday messages. She knew they both kept their phones turned down overnight. It was better to leave one for each of them now than to get consumed in a day of reporting and miss sending her love on the holiday.
Hanging up after leaving her second message, Liz considered how sad Veronica must be feeling, wondering each time the phone rang if it would be her mother calling. And here it was Christmas, with no word of her.
Pouring coffee, Liz picked up the unread copy of the World. Amusingly, like the Banner, its front page also featured the poem The Night Before Christmas, but thanks to its larger format, it also contained articles on world and local news. Leading the paper’s Western Suburbs section, Liz found a piece by Nancy Knight bearing the headline, “Tragedy Haunts Past of Missing Newton Woman.”
Although the article revealed no more than could be found in news archives—the accidental drowning of Ellen Johansson’s father—the unearthing of old news was apparently enough to raise the ire of Olga Swenson, who phoned Liz moments later.
“It was only a matter of time until those old press clippings would be dug up. You know that, Mrs. Swenson,” Liz said. “They’re a part of the public record, after all. This is what happens when there are no new leads on a case that has gripped the public’s imagination.”
“All right, all right,” Olga Swenson said. “I understand what you’re saying, but it’s painful, nonetheless. Now that it’s out there in big type again, I’m wondering if anything I told you is getting you any closer to bringing my daughter home to me.”
“Not directly,” Liz said. The desperate, pleading tone of Mrs. Swenson’s voice caused the reporter to feel apologetic. Even though it had only been a few days since she’d learned about the boy from the school for troubled teens, she felt remiss in having no ready answers for Ellen’s mother. “But you can help me put to rest one item.”
“Oh, here’s Veronica,” Mrs. Swenson said. “It’s Christmas morning, after all, and we must open gifts. Let me meet you a little bit later. I shall need to walk Hershey.”
“Could we make it somewhere other than the topiary garden, please?” Liz asked.
“All right. I’ll meet you in two hours at the Wellesley College faculty club parking lot. We can stroll around the campus.”
“Assuming my editor okays this, I’ll be there. I’ll phone you only if the editor says no.”
“And, Liz?” Olga Swenson said.
“Yes, Mrs. Swenson?”
“Thank you for devoting your Christmas to this.”
“You’re welcome. May your day be the best it can be, under the circumstances. Please give my love to Veronica.”
“Yes, of course.”
Olga Swenson’s call gave Liz the opportunity she’d been looking for to design her own Christmas Day assignments. If she were given the okay by phone, she would not even have to drive in to the newsroom until the afternoon. Fortunately, Esther O’Faolin was ruling the roost. And she was in better spirits than usual.
“Gobble, gobble,” Esther said. “Cute turkey piece in today’s paper. Not that anyone will read it. Sales are close to zero on Christmas Day.”
“I may be onto something that will give us some news for tomorrow’s paper, when everyone picks it up for after-Christmas sales ads,” Liz said, telling Esther she had an exclusive opportunity for a Christmas Day conversation with Mrs. Swenson.
“Go for it,” Esther said.
Liz realized Esther must not yet have read the World, since she didn’t point out how that paper had scooped the Banner on Karl Swenson’s drowning death.
With more than an hour of free time before she would have to set out for the Wellesley rendezvous, Liz looked about for a way to enjoy the unexpected at-home stretch of Christmas morning. It was time to give Prudence her gift, a carpet-covered little cave that looked just the right size for the cat to cuddle up in. Hoping it would help attract the cat, Liz put the catnip mouse from Tom inside the structure. Standing up and stretching her front legs luxuriously, Prudence approached the gift as though it was the Trojan horse. After examining it for a good few minutes, she decid
ed to ignore both the cozy interior and catnip mouse. Instead, purring loudly, she climbed on top of the structure and perched herself on it proudly, like a sentry.
Liz was laughing when she picked up the ringing phone.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Tom said, sounding piqued. “You didn’t even leave your name when you called.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want your lady friend to know about me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The gal on your answering machine.”
“I can explain that.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“But—hey listen. I thought you said you’d be working today.”
“I will be, in a little over an hour.”
“Are you busy until then?”
“Very! Drinking coffee and playing with Prudence.”
“Can I come over and play with you two, too?”
“Oh, all right. But make it snappy!”
“Bah, humbug! See you soon.”
Liz applied a touch of make-up and lipstick and dressed in flannel-lined jeans, a heavy Irish-knit sweater, and thick wool socks. This time, she would be prepared to walk in wintry Wellesley. She was about to pull on her insulated boots when Tom arrived at her door. Still in stocking feet, she stood aside as he entered bearing two Styrofoam containers of coffee and a battered cookie tin.
“From my ‘lady friend,’” Tom grinned, handing Liz the cookie tin. When she said nothing, he said, “Well, aren’t you gonna open it?”
The tin contained two circular pastries, filled with currants.
“Eccles cakes,” Tom said. “Mind if I sit down?”
Liz swept her hand in the direction of her armchair. “Be my guest,” she said. But she remained standing.
“I gather you’ve never had Eccles cakes before. Well, they’re always a treat, but these are better than most. My cousin Caroline makes them every year. Most of the time, my relatives in Swanage—that’s on the south coast of England—get to eat them. But this year, she’s with us for the holidays. I’d have brought her to meet you, but she’s home with my folks.”
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