“I know it’s a long shot, but please allow me to see if we can find Charlotte’s Web wallpaper and one of Santa’s elves to hang it for your very special little girl.”
“Spare no expense. It’s an inspired idea.”
Chapter 18
Liz was a full twenty minutes late for her appointment with the DYS girls. Since the photographer had arrived, shot pictures, and left, Liz was left with the task of coaxing good quotes from the girls the photographer had chosen to focus in upon. It was often the case, Liz knew, that a striking face was a poor indicator of its owner’s talent with words. With females, especially, a less-than-stunning appearance was often a better predictor of verbal skills. With this in mind, and preoccupied with the more pressing desire to advance the Johansson investigation, Liz labored to appear enthusiastic about her subject. But then a young woman named LaShandra Washington called her on it.
“Look. Do you care about talkin’ wit’ us or not? We been waitin’ on you to get your ass over here so we could tell you something that matters. You get what I’m sayin’?”
“You’re being blunt with me, so I’ll be straight with you. I’ve got a little girl missing her mother, who disappeared from Newton last week.”
“Boo hoo! We should care about some white-bread kid from a perfect home that turns out to be not so perfect? Some people know all about things that never gonna be perfect. But you people in the press, you never get it, do you? This is where the real stories are, in us kids whose moms is always missin’.”
Liz looked LaShandra in the eye. “You have a point, LaShandra,” she said. “So what do you do about that? How do you keep going?”
“Not by making smart-ass New Year’s resolutions, I can tell you.”
“That’s right,” a couple of other girls chorused.
“Then how?”
“By kickin’ ass and tellin’ it like it is, that’s how!”
“Kickin’ ass about what kinds of things?”
“Abuse, for one thing,” LaShandra said. “Sex-u-al, verbal, e-mo-tional abuse. Abuse in every flavor. You mess with me, I kick your ass.”
“That’s right,” the girls chorused again.
What about telling it like it is? Who do you tell?”
“Depends on what you’re tellin’. If your daddy mess wit’ you, you don’t go runnin’ to him, ’cept to tell him to go fuck hisself.”
“That’s right!”
LaShandra dropped her eyes and softened her tone. “I might tell Father James somethin’ like that. Get him to restrict the old man’s visits, you know what I mean?”
“That sounds like a good idea. It also sounds like it would take courage,” Liz said.
LaShandra paused. “It takes that. Yeah, you need courage. But you also need resolve. That’s it. Some things you can’t fix with one of your New Year’s resolutions. You got to have resolve.”
Thanking her lucky stars that the photographer chose LaShandra as one of his subjects, Liz spoke with a few of the other girls, two of whom she recognized as contributors to the making of her afghan. On impulse, she took from her wallet a photo of Prudence preening herself on the afghan and gave it to them. Rough and tough as they were on the surface, they all dissolved into oohs and ahs as they passed the photo to one another. Only one of them seemed unmoved by the cat photo: a scrawny teen called Eleanor, a name that seemed far too big and old-fashioned for her. Liz made a mental note to seek out the reserved girl for a future report.
Saying her good-byes to the young women and to Father James, Liz knew time was tight, lines were up, and Dermott McCann would be on the warpath when she arrived late. Thanks to the cell phone, she was able to call and say she was on her way in. But that didn’t do a thing to take the sting out of city editor’s wrath.
“Where the hell’ve you been, Higgins?” the city editor demanded as soon as Liz approached his desk. “How are we supposed to get a paper out when we don’t know what you’ve dug up for us till after lines are up? Was it so difficult to come up with a freakin’ New Year’s resolution piece with a whole day to spare?”
“I’ve got that and more, Dermott. I managed to get inside the Johansson house with the missing woman’s mother. The police have stripped . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What else is new?” He pointed to the television screen mounted above his head, over the city desk. Its volume was low, but the picture was clear. Standing in front of the Johansson house was Channel Six newsman George Sanders, expounding on the wallpaper stripping.
“I hope, at least, you got a good look at the clue on the wall.”
“What clue?”
“I wish to hell I knew. Police aren’t saying. Hell, Higgins, you better wish you knew. You mean to tell me you were inside the house, inside the bedroom, and you didn’t see it?”
“I saw a completely stripped room. No, I take that back. Three walls were stripped completely. The fourth was only partially stripped.”
“Christ almighty, Higgins! Are you telling me you didn’t take a good look at that number-four wall? And why the hell didn’t you call for a photographer? Say something! Don’t just give me those puppy-dog eyes! Get the hell to your desk and file that New Year’s resolution story. I hope at least you’re good for eight inches on that!”
As she wrote the story, Liz felt utterly deflated. It is a reality of the media wars that television journalists have a huge advantage over daily newspaper reporters. TV types could break news the same day as it happened, instead of delivering it the next morning. But Liz had lost more than the scoop here. If she had been on the ball, she literally would have gotten the inside story and had more to report than the television people did, even if it appeared in the next day’s paper.
Instead, she’d let her emotions get in the way of doing her job. No matter how much her heart went out to Olga Swenson, she did the woman no service by holding her hands instead of getting to the bottom of the mystery. Dick Manning had a point when he warned her it’s not a good idea to get emotionally involved with the people you meet in the course of reporting.
And would she heed this advice tonight, Liz wondered, when dining someplace “rather special” with Cormac Kinnaird? Much would depend on the unpredictable mood of the good doctor.
Although the clock was ticking towards her rendezvous with Cormac, she took the time to search the telephone database for Harmony Haven, Clifford Buxton, and Ali Abdulhazar. Finding the music teacher was as simple as whistling a happy tune. A Buxton, Clifford, was listed as residing on Liszt Lane in Bourne, Massachusetts. The street was probably one of several that composed a housing development known as Harmony Haven. But finding Ali was not so easy. Liz learned quickly that Arabic names are spelled with numerous variations, some phonetic and others reflecting the linguistic influences of those who militarily occupied, governed, or culturally influenced parts of the Arab world. Thus, Abdul might also be spelled in the French manner, Abdoul. And then there was the punctuation problem, which presented more variations, including Ab’dul and Abd’ul. Combine this with the rest of Ali’s last name and you had to search through variations such as Ab’dulhazar, Ab’dul-hazar, Abdoulhazar, Abdoul-hazar, and more. Add to this the fact that Ali is an extremely common Arab name, and Liz came up with hundreds of possibilities. Narrowing the search by age still left her with eighty-six possibilities in eastern Massachusetts alone, and Liz did not know if it was reasonable to assume Ali had remained in the area.
If she were going to make her date with Cormac, she would have to pursue this further tomorrow, so she gathered her things and prepared to leave the newsroom. Back at her desk, she noticed the light blinking on her phone, indicating a call had come in. Picking it up, she heard a recorded message from the Cape Cod Mayhew. “Hey, it’s Doug Mayhew again. You planning to cover my band’s gig or not?” the voice demanded. Then he changed his tone. “I sur
e hope so,” he said.
Ah, the power of the press to raise—and shatter—hopes! Thinking of her promise to Veronica that she would find the child’s mother, Liz returned to the database in the Banner’s library and expanded her search to business listings starting with the words “Ali,” “Ali’s,” “Ali Abdulhazar,” and “Abdulhazar’s.” This gave her hundreds more listings, but one was more promising than the rest. The owner of Ali’s Music Shack in Randolph, Massachusetts, might be the same Ali who appeared on the list she’d narrowed to Abdulhazars of the correct age group, with a home telephone number listed in Randolph.
Watching the clock, Liz gave Dr. Mayhew a quick call and learned he had no recollection of where Ali’s family had resided. He told her Randolph did not ring a bell but it was not impossible that Ali grew up there. He promised to see if he could find Ali’s address record, but given that it was amongst the disorganized stacks of papers in his living room, that might take some time.
A call to Ali’s Music Shack produced nothing but a recorded message indicating the store was closed until tomorrow. It did not invite a message. There was a message machine on the home number, though. The trouble was, the message was spoken in Arabic. Liz decided it would be better to keep trying the number until someone answered directly than to leave a message on that line. After all this she decided she simply did not have time to call the Buxton number.
Back at Gravesend Street, Liz struggled to shake the feeling of failure and frustration that had settled over her, and found herself looking at her wardrobe with an air of uncertainty, too. A reporter’s business dress was, on the whole, far more casual than corporate style. There was rarely a call for office wear that could also serve as evening attire in a pinch. A skirt and silk blouse were about as dressy as Liz got in the course of her job. She did possess one business suit, but it screamed “office,” not “dinner date.” That left her with the choice between a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, a teal-green wool sheath, and a longer black velvet number with a rather deep V neck. Rejecting the cocktail dress as too skimpy for the season and the black velvet as too daring for the weeknight occasion, she selected the sheath. The color was not currently in fashion, but it did set off her auburn hair to good advantage. And the cut of the dress flattered her figure. Considering she did not possess a long dress coat, the street-length dress would also look better than the others with the lined raincoat she planned to wear over it. Fortunately, there was no need to wear boots—the recent rain had washed away most of the snow in the city—since none of hers would look right with this outfit. Sheer stockings and a pair of heels would look fine with both raincoat and dress.
As Liz laid out her clothes and then stepped into the shower, it seemed both strange and inappropriate that such considerations could matter so much at a time like this. Here she was, taking time to dress up for a date while Ellen Johansson might never have the opportunity to fuss over her clothing choice again. And that raised the question of what Ellen had been wearing when she went missing. Had anyone reported on that? Certainly, Liz had not. She made a mental note to find out.
As she shampooed her hair, Liz’s thoughts strayed to Cormac. What kind of humor would he be in? Smiling at the thought of the dresses she had rejected, she almost laughed to think of how awful it would be to show up in an alluring outfit, only to have Cormac confine his conversation to forensics, or worse, to speak hardly at all, or ogle some other woman. He was an enigma; that was certain. Still, Liz reflected as she toweled herself dry, it would, after all, be useful if Cormac had something to report about the forensics.
Since she had skipped lunch, Liz made herself an English muffin and ate it as she dried her hair and applied makeup. She followed it with a few slices of Swiss cheese. It would not do to have a predinner drink on an empty stomach. Although she often ate lightly out of necessity, her appetite was a healthy one. She had no fear the snack would spoil it.
After her hair was dry, she slipped into her dress, put on her pearl earrings and pendant, and transferred some items from her large purse into a smaller, dressier clutch. The cell phone bulged in it, but there was no time to fuss any further, so after setting down some food for Prudence, she hurried out to her car.
It was no surprise, on a day like this, that she was settled in the driver’s seat before she realized she’d forgotten something. With a large sigh of frustration, she rushed back to the house and rummaged through the mail and other items on her coffee table until she found the thin, gift-wrapped packages of guitar strings tied up with a gold ribbon, and slipped them into her purse.
As always, parking in Harvard Square was a nightmare. This time, it felt like one of those bad dreams where you cannot achieve some time-sensitive goal thanks to everything moving in slow motion. Liz circled the area for fifteen minutes before finding a parking spot alongside the quirky building that housed a used bookshop and the Harvard Lampoon. Sitting on its own island in the road, the brick edifice sported a small dome and some club flags, which flapped in the same stiff breeze whipping up from the Charles River, wreaking havoc with Liz’s hair.
Late and disheveled, Liz walked as fast as she could in her heels over the uneven brick sidewalks. Built of the same kind of bricks that were used in most of Harvard’s classic architecture, the sidewalks added charm to the area around Harvard Square, even if they caused a good number of falls and twisted ankles. As she neared the building owned by Harvard’s Hasty Pudding Club, Liz slowed her pace to catch her breath, but that effort was wasted since the well-named restaurant, Upstairs at the Pudding, was located at the top of two steep staircases. By the time she’d scaled them, Liz felt not just windswept but winded.
Given the circumstances, the music she heard performed on a piano there seemed ill-chosen in the extreme: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “It Might as Well Be Spring.” Across a room filled with candlelit tables, Liz saw Cormac Kinnaird gazing at her as she gave the hostess her raincoat and then crossed the room to him.
“I’m as jumpy as a puppet on a string,” he said, “but now that you’re here, it might as well be—” He looked up at a waiter who appeared at that moment. Then he said to Liz, “How was your day? Should we celebrate it with champagne or recover from it with something that will warm the cockles?”
“The latter, I think.”
The doctor ordered. “We’d each like a dram of Lagavulin, straight up, in a brandy snifter, please.”
Liz took a moment to visit the ladies’ room where, as she tamed her auburn mane, she noticed her wind-burned cheeks made her look like she was blushing deeply. When she returned to the table, Cormac told her, “That was unnecessary. You looked fine with a little wind in your hair.”
“And now?”
He took the opportunity to look her over slowly before delivering his verdict. “Just as fine.” He raised his glass, “Here’s looking at you.”
Wearing an expression composed of congratulations—and some dismay—over the realization that he’d delivered the overused line with the panache of a practiced lady-killer, Liz raised her snifter in the air between them and took a sip. Meanwhile, the pianist launched into a jazzy rendition of “I’ve Got the World on a String.”
“That says it all for me today,” Cormac said waving his drink slightly in the direction of the pianist. “Some success at work and now a lovely dining companion.”
As she perused the sophisticated menu, Liz remarked, “It all looks so delicious that you could almost close your eyes and point blindly to any dish on it, assured you’d have a wonderful meal.”
“Then, shall I order for you?” Without waiting for a reply, he told the waiter, “The lady will have an order of brook trout encrusted with hazelnuts accompanied by stir-fried watercress and the roasted root vegetable julienne.”
The waiter nodded and took down the order carefully.
“Or perhaps she’ll have an order of lamb and prune
cassoulet with couscous and baby carrots,” the doctor said.
“I don’t understand,” the waiter said, looking at Liz.
“We’ll choose our wine after we decide who’s eating which meal,” Cormac explained.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said doubtfully, winking at Liz.
“Now we have a delicious subject for debate until the dinner is delivered,” Cormac said.
As they discussed the merits of trout and lamb, it occurred to Liz that her dining companion had not called her by name since she had arrived at the restaurant. She might be any reasonably attractive “lady” keeping company with the doctor. And when he took her in with his cool blue eyes, she was quite aware he’d done the same with the redhead in Tir Na Nog. As she finished her Scotch, she decided he might rely on other men’s lines, but at least he did so in a manner that made them his own. Certainly, the music—now the pianist was playing Gershwin’s “Embraceable You”—and the attention were intensely pleasant. By the time their dinners were served, she’d decided on the heartier meal and red wine, while he seemed pleased to take the fish and a glass of Riesling.
Seeing her pleasure in the music, he asked her if she played an instrument or sang herself. She admitted she once dreamt of becoming a cabaret singer. Instead of running with that revelation, he said he’d once studied violin, with little success.
“To hear me play it, you would never have thought I had a musical bone in my body,” he admitted. “It’s only thanks to a lucky chance that I found my way to world of Irish music—a woman I knew urged me to attend some of the sessions at Tir Na Nog—and now it gives me so much pleasure.”
“Was that the singer we heard last week?”
“Yes, she’s the one.”
“It appeared you’d known her for a long time.”
“What gave you that impression? No, not really. Say, didn’t we decide earlier today that you would tell me about your day over dinner?”
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