Closing her eyes, she tried to think. She didn’t want her father to have killed Larisa and she didn’t want him to be tailing her, but her wanting didn’t necessarily make it so.
“Why would he be following us?” she finally made herself ask.
“To see what we’re up to.”
But her father wasn’t the sort of man who’d be following her. At least, she’d never have believed he was. Just as she’d never have believed he could be a murderer.
While a break in the traffic was allowing Cole to back out onto Bedford, the thought that she might be wrong on all counts flitted around the edges of her mind.
She tried to drive it away by exhaling a long, slow, calming breath. But before she’d even completely exhaled, they turned onto Tranby and her anxiety level climbed skyward again.
In the heart of one of Toronto’s earliest upper-class neighborhoods, Tranby Avenue was charming —lined on both sides by big Victorian houses that, over the decades, had been either beautifully maintained or tastefully updated.
But Larisa had been murdered in one of them, and this was the first time, in all the years since, that Beth had ventured onto the street.
The nearer they drew to that house, the more un-settled she felt. She could visualize it—one of the larger ones, sitting about halfway along the north side of the block.
But she didn’t dare look in its direction. Instead, she sat studiously gazing at the houses on the south side, checking the numbers as they neared Esther Voise’s.
Just before they reached it, Cole stopped and backed into a space that at first glance seemed too small for the Mustang.
Fortunately, it wasn’t, because, aside from it, the street was parked solid.
“Okay,” he said, cutting the ignition. “She might know the name Beth Gregory, so use a phony one. We don’t need her asking you questions.”
As Beth nodded, he reached into the back seat for his briefcase—the briefcase containing the picture of her father as a young man.
Her stomach in knots, she climbed out of the car. A few more knots developed as they walked along to the house and she spotted a woman peering through one of the front windows.
She gave them a wave, then disappeared. A minute later, the front door opened and she was saying, “I’m Miss Voise, of course. Do come in.”
A little bird of a woman, somewhere in her seventies, she seemed delighted to have visitors. Beth only wished she was even slightly delighted to be doing the visiting.
Cole introduced himself and gave the woman a business card, while Beth identified herself as Wendy Kinahan. Wendy was too good a friend to mind her name being used.
Miss Voise didn’t suggest they call her Esther, but her manner was friendly enough. She led them into ? her living room and gestured them toward the couch.
“It’s been so long since anyone’s asked me about the murder,” she said as they all sat down. “But I remember that day as if it were yesterday. The street was jam-packed with police cars, and there were so many people going in and out of Dr. Niebuhr’s house, it needed a revolving door.”
Cole smiled at the remark, then opened his brief-case.
Beth’s pulse began racing as he pulled out the folder with the snapshot inside.
“It’s not actually the murder that we want to ask about,” he said. “We’d like to know if you recall ever seeing this man visiting the Niebuhrs’ house.”
Beth held her breath while Cole flipped open the folder and handed Esther the picture.
She looked at it for a couple of seconds, then said, “Oh, yes, I certainly do.”
Her words made Beth feel as if someone had punched her impossibly hard, and such a loud pounding started in her ears that she could barely hear the rest of what the woman was saying.
“I remember seeing him many times,” she continued. “That’s a picture of the brother-in-law. La-risa’s sister’s husband.”
The pounding began to fade. Her father hadn’t been the mystery man. Weak with relief, she tuned back in to what Esther Voise was saying.
“They’d come over for barbecues the odd time during the summer. And they’d always bring their little girl—the poor little thing who was there when Larisa was murdered. You know about her, I imagine.”
Cole nodded.
“The poor little thing,” Esther said again. “She was so traumatized by the murder that she could never remember whether she’d seen it.”
“Oh?” Cole said. “That wasn’t in the newspapers, was it?”
“No, but you know how neighbors find out about things. And the papers never get things right anyway. They said she was off playing in the basement, which just couldn’t have been true. She’d have been wherever Larisa was. Larisa positively doted on her.
“But why did you ask me about the brother-in-law?” Esther asked, abruptly switching topics and looking at the snapshot once more.
Cole tried to think of a logical answer. He hadn’t been expecting this turn of events, hadn’t thought about the Gregorys socializing as a couple—not after Niebuhr had talked about them leading separate lives. But the possibility should have at least crossed his mind.
Mentally kicking himself, he said, “A bit of new information’s come to light.”
Esther nodded. “Yes, you told me that when you phoned.”
“A few photographs,” he said, hoping he sounded believable. “And we didn’t know who this man was.”
“But Marie Niebuhr could have told you,” Esther pointed out, looking suspicious. “And you said you were working for him.’’
“Yes, we are.” Quickly, Cole produced Niebuhr’s card and showed it to her. “But we haven’t met with Dr. Niebuhr since we were given the photos. And we wanted to talk to you, anyway, so we thought we’d show you the picture while we were here,” he added, breathing more easily when her suspicious expression faded.
“Oh. Oh, yes, I guess I misunderstood. I thought you’d come specifically to show me the picture. What did you really want to talk to me about, then?”
“The man you told the police about—the one they were never able to identify.”
“The one with the ponytail.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you can’t know how much I wished I’d been able to describe him better. Not that I saw him the day of the murder or anything, but I knew they’d have liked to question him about it. I’d only seen him three times, though. And I’d never really gotten much of a look at him.
“The first time, he was standing on the front steps before I noticed him. That was in early spring—late March or the beginning of April was what I recalled at the time.”
“And he used the front door?”
“Yes, they all did.” She hesitated, then added, “You do know that Larisa used to entertain a lot of…friends.”
“Yes, I think we have most of that story.”
“Well, I was never as judgmental about it as some people. And I wasn’t the neighborhood busybody, either. I didn’t stand around watching what was going on. I was a nurse, so I led a busy life of my own. But with my shift work, I was quite often at home during the day. And I’d just sometimes happen to look out the window and see one of them coming or going.”
“Of course.”
“At any rate, the first time I saw this one, I thought to myself, that’s one I haven’t seen before. The ponytail made me realize that. He was wearing a baseball cap, and his ponytail was hanging through the hole in the back. Brown,” she added. “He had brown hair.”
“And the other times you saw him? Did you notice anything more?”
“Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid. As I told the police, he was average height, average weight, and I guessed somewhere in his thirties. The only other thing was that every time I saw him he was wearing a hat
“The second time, it was one of those off-white canvas things with a brim. And the last time, it was a brown leather one—kind of a Mexican cowboy hat, it looked like. I remember thinking how hot his head mu
st have been, and wondering why anyone would wear a leather hat in July.”
“July,” Cole repeated. “So the last time you saw him wasn’t long before the murder.”
“No, only a week or so.”
“And you never had a feeling there was anything familiar about him? He couldn’t have been someone you’d ever seen other times? Maybe not wearing a hat?”
When Esther hesitated, Cole glanced at Beth. She was watching the older woman closely, her expression tense.
For her sake, he hoped Esther Voise was positive the man with the ponytail had been a total stranger to her.
On the other hand, if Glen Gregory was the murderer, the sooner they came up with some hard evidence of that, the better. And if he wasn’t guilty, why the hell would he have been tailing them?
“I don’t think there was anything familiar about him,” Esther said at last “I know nothing struck me at the time. But since I never got much more than a glimpse of him, I suppose it’s possible.”
“And what about Larisa’s other visitors?” Cole said. “Did you see much of them in the weeks before the murder?”
“No. In fact, I didn’t remember seeing any of them at all. But as I said, I wasn’t just standing around watching.”
AFTER SHE AND COLE said their goodbyes to Esther Voise, Beth didn’t utter another word. She knew exactly why Cole had asked whether there’d been anything familiar about the mystery man, and she simply wasn’t up to talking about it
Frank Abbot had said the ponytail could have been fake. Which meant there was a chance Esther had seen the man other times. Looking different Possibly looking like Mark and Larisa’s brother-in-law. That was what Cole had been fishing for.
She bit her lower lip, morosely aware that she wasn’t nearly as convinced of her father’s innocence as she’d initially been.
Immediately after she’d recalled the murder, she’d had only the tiniest fear that he might really have been the killer. But the fear had been growing. And the fact that it had, the fact that she could seriously suspect her own father of something so monstrous, was eating her up inside. They were back in the Mustang and pulling away from the curb before she forced herself to speak.
“Cole? If Esther Voise had ever seen the mystery man in a different context, don’t you think she’d have sensed there was something familiar about him?”
“She might have. But don’t forget she only caught glimpses of him each time.”
“Well, they were long enough glimpses that she knew he was the same man.”
“Beth,” he said gently, “a pony tail’s kind of hard to miss, even with just a glimpse.”
“But she said she’d seen my father many times. So surely there’d have been something. The way he walked, or…something.”
Cole simply reached across and rested his hand on hers, as if he could feel her frustration.
“Look,” he said, pulling up at the stop sign when they reached Avenue Road. “We went in there thinking she might say your father was the mystery man, but she didn’t. That’s the good news. The not-so-good news is that we’re dealing with what was probably a disguise, so…we’ll just keep on digging until we learn what we need to.”
He didn’t move his hand from hers when he’d finished speaking, and his touch helped—but not nearly enough.
Esther Voise had never even suspected that Glen Gregory was the mystery man, let alone recognized him as Larisa’s unidentified visitor. That should have been enough to clear him.
But because of a stupid ponytail and some hats, it wasn’t And that just wasn’t fair.
BETH LOOKED UP FROM the magazine article she couldn’t make herself concentrate on and glanced over at Cole.
Normally, she’d hate spending a nice summer evening cooped up in her apartment with nothing except reruns on television. But under the current circumstances, she was only too happy to be right here where she felt relatively safe, listening to Marian Carey’s latest CD and reading.
She turned her attention back to the article and made it through a few more sentences. Before long, though, she found herself looking at Cole again—and trying not to wish he was sitting on the couch beside her rather than in a chair.
Of course, he would be if she’d given him the slightest encouragement. She was sure of that. But she’d effectively discouraged him, because she still hadn’t finished trying to sort through her feelings in the Brian/Cole department. And until she had…
She eyed him for another few moments, thinking he looked so very right sitting there. Then she remembered that was exactly what she’d thought when he’d been sitting in the kitchen with her, eating the pizza they’d picked up on their way back from Esther Voise’s.
In any event, at the moment she couldn’t imagine how he could possibly look more right. He was reading a murder mystery, with Bogey contentedly purring on his lap and Bacall draped over the back of his chair, one of her front paws lightly resting on his shoulder.
Brian, she absently reflected, didn’t like the cats “groveling around him,” as he put it. But why was she thinking about that? Was she mentally building a case for ending things with Brian?
A case. As the word began to drift around in her mind, her thoughts turned to the real case. Cole had said there wasn’t much work they could do on it tonight, but she wished there had been.
Actually, what she wished was that they’d already learned who’d killed her aunt. And who was targeting her. Because the uncertainty—not to mention the little matter of her life being in danger—had her nerves completely on edge.
“You know what I’ve been wondering about?” Cole asked, looking up from his book.
She smiled, forcing away her thoughts of uncertainty and danger. “Do I look like a mind reader?”
“Very funny. But be serious and listen. There’s something bothering me about your uncle.”
“Oh? What?”
“Well, I can’t help thinking that if the average guy’s wife was murdered, and afterward he found out she’d been as unfaithful as Larisa was…You know what I’m trying to say? Don’t you think his memory of her would be tarnished, to say the least?”
“I…yes, that certainly makes sense.”
“Then why does your uncle seem so…almost obsessed with her memory? I mean, there’s this ritual with the three of you going to the cemetery every year, and—”
“A lot of families do that sort of thing.”
“I know they do. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be going with you tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure Mark would like that. My mother might not, either. Because I guess you’re right, it is a ritual.”
And it was kind of a morbid one, although she didn’t admit that. She simply added, “We do every-thing the same way each year. Larisa was murdered sometime after ten in the morning, so we always meet there before ten.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “That’s just the way Mark wants it. And afterward, we go back to my mother’s house for lunch. Just the three of us. It’s always been like that. Even the first year, when my parents were still together, they didn’t ask my father to join us.”
“Well, they’ll just have to cope with someone joining them this year.”
Beth didn’t offer any further objection. Regardless of what the others would like, she’d feel a whole lot better with Cole there.
“At any rate,” he continued, “getting back to your uncle and Larisa—when you finally remembered witnessing the murder, why was Mark so adamant about following up on it right away? Even though he admitted you could have remembered the wrong face? I mean, after twenty-two years, why was he pressuring you to go to the police immediately? And when you refused, why did he drag you to see me the very next day? Hell, you should have been home in bed. You looked like a zombie.”
“Thank you very much,” she said, softening the sarcasm with a smile.
When Cole quietly said, “An extremely pretty zombie,’’ the words started a slow ripple of heat through h
er.
“Just one who should have been resting up,” he added, “instead of being in my office. But the point is, what difference would a few days have made?”
“Well,’’ she said slowly, thinking it should have occurred to her to wonder why Mark had been so determined to rush into this. But she had been a zombie, and she hadn’t been thinking clearly about any-thing.
“I guess he didn’t want to wait because that’s just the way he is,” she continued at last. “When he makes a decision, he acts on it right away.”
Before Cole said anything more, the phone began to ring. He glanced at it, then at her.
When she didn’t move, he lifted Bogey off his lap and pushed himself out of the chair.
“You think this is your caller, don’t you?” he asked, looking at the caller ID display. It was reading Caller Unknown.
“It might be. He usually phones at night.”
Cole picked up the cordless, clicked it on and packed his hello with menace.
“Yeah, she’s here,” he added a moment later, handing her the phone, then heading back to his chair.
It was Brian, and his first words were “Who was that?”
She swore to herself. She didn’t want to try filling him in via long distance. “It’s a complicated story,” she said. ‘‘I’ll tell you about it when you get back.”
“Beth, if you were three thousand miles away, and a strange woman answered my phone, wouldn’t you be curious?”
“Yes, of course. But…oh, all right. I’ve started to remember Larisa’s murder. And because I have, Mark hired a private investigator. That’s who answered the phone. We were in the midst of discussing the case.’
“The case?” Brian said. “What case?”
“I just told you. Mark’s hired an investigator to look into Larisa’s murder, and—-”
“After all these years? And this guy’s in your apartment in the middle of the night discussing it with you?”
“It’s hardly the middle of the night.”
“Maybe not, but you were eight years old when your aunt was murdered. What the hell information can you give him about the case?’’
The sarcasm in Brian’s voice started anger sim-mering inside her. Anger mixed with…resentment? And with annoyance that he always seemed to think he could be running her life better than she was?
The Missing Hour Page 11