I swallowed hard to keep from crying. Her compliment meant more to me than she could know. I could almost hear my mother telling me I’d done well.
“Excellent. First, we’ll caramelize the onions.”
“They’re big,” she said, watching as I hefted two onions.
“Vidalias,” I explained. “They were my grandfather’s favorite.”
My mother had adored her father, a grandfather I’d never met. “He encouraged me to read,” she’d explained to me. “I was only eight when he started me on Mickey Spillane.” I repeated the story to Paige as I supervised her cutting the onions into paper-thin slices.
“Who’s Mickey Spillane?” she asked.
“A mystery writer. The book covers were kind of racy, so her mom, my grandmother, didn’t approve.”
“What happened?”
I smiled, recalling my mother’s face as she told me the story. “My grandfather gave my mom a flashlight so she could read under the covers at night and her mom would never know.”
“I love that!”
“And he kept her in batteries.”
What a guy, I thought, wishing for the thousandth time that I’d known him. An only child of parents who were only children of older parents, I’d never met a relative, and as far as I knew, I had no family at all.
Eric called around seven, to say that the pickup was complete. “And,” he added, “I remembered to set the alarm.”
“You’re the best!” I told him, meaning it. “Thank you.”
I turned my attention back to the recipe. We whipped up a nutmeg-laden white sauce, layered Fontina cheese and the onion slices in a lacy pattern on butterflied chicken breasts, sautéed them, and served them over a bed of rice pilaf with a spinach and avocado salad with dried cranberries dressed in a tarragon white wine vinaigrette.
“The secret to salad,” I said, drizzling salad dressing, “is to dress less and toss more.”
“I’ve never had anything like this,” Paige said. She looked utterly unimpressed.
“You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. There’s plenty of English muffins so you can always make more pizza.”
“I’ll try it.” She paused, then added, “Rosalie would eat anything, like my dad, but I’ve always been kind of picky, more like my mom.”
“Well, there’s no pressure here,” I assured her. “You eat what you want.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t much like the salad, but she did like the chicken and rice, and more to the point, she tried everything, which I told her was pretty darn impressive for a twelve-year-old.
After dinner, she asked to check e-mail and while she was busy at the computer, I found myself unable to settle down. I paced. Cooking with Paige had succeeded in distracting me, but the diversion was over, and my amorphous fears had returned.
Is my secret admirer out there tonight? I asked myself, trying to see into the shadows. I shook my head, confused and troubled. I couldn’t stop thinking about Rosalie.
If Rosalie did in fact have drinks with Gerry the night she died, where did she go afterward? Since her car was in her driveway, covered with snow, she must have driven herself home and then gone out again. According to Wes, Gerry’s driver reported that Edie’s car wasn’t visible when he drove Gerry home. Could Gerry have followed Rosalie to her place and then driven her somewhere else, trusting his limo driver to keep her presence secret?
I scrolled through my phone’s stored numbers until I found Wes’s cell phone number, and pushed the recall button. It went to his voice mail immediately.
“Wes,” I said, “it’s me, Josie. I have a question—you know that Gerry had drinks with Rosalie, right? The night she died, they were at The Miller House. Here’s my question. She drove herself to the restaurant and home again. I know because Paige said Rosalie went out, yet the next day we found her car snowed in. So she must have gone out again later, with someone else doing the driving. Do you know who that someone else could be? Call me, okay? ’Bye.”
I flipped the phone closed and looked out toward the hedge, half expecting to see a boxy, dark-colored car. I stood up and stretched, ready to head upstairs when my cell phone rang. Wes, I thought, returning my call.
It wasn’t. The display showed a 207 area code.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
I was unwilling to answer it, yet unable to put it down. The ringing stopped, and still I stared at it. In less than a minute, the envelope icon appeared. There was a message.
“Josie,” a voice said as if the speaker were breathlessly exhaling and barely enunciating words. “You need to stop. Stop, Josie.” The voice changed and became icy cold and stone hard. “Or you’ll be sorry.” The words were indistinct, but the underlying emotion was palpable and terrifying. I played it again.
What am I to stop? I wondered. How can anyone know what I’m doing? I walked closer to the window and stood in dappled moonlight. I forced myself to breathe deeply, trying to subdue my electrified anxiety. Then, after a moment, I called Officer Brownley.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Not a problem. What’s going on?”
“I got another call—a message—and it was pretty disturbing.”
“In what way?”
“He—or she—spoke.”
“Saying what?”
I closed my eyes, embarrassed. I repeated the message, feeling awkward.
“Did you recognize the voice?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know about the voice, but last time there was a sound.”
“What kind of sound?”
“A clang.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You saved it, right?”
“Yes,” I replied, closing my eyes.
“Call me back on your landline, okay?”
“How come?”
After a pause she said, “So I can listen to the message.”
“Okay.” I hung up.
All at once, I had a terrifying thought. Was Officer Brownley telling me the whole story? Was it just that she wanted to listen to the message? Or was it that someone was listening in to my phone calls and she wanted me off that line? I stared at my cell phone. The 207 caller might have heard my message to Wes. What else might he—or she—have heard? I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall for support, fighting panic.
I opened my eyes and dialed her number again from my regular phone.
“First, give me the number,” Officer Brownley said when we were reconnected.
I read off the numbers to her. After I was done, she said, “Hold your cell phone near the receiver and play it for me.”
I did so, and she had me hit replay so she could listen to it again.
“How was that?” I asked.
“Good enough for me to get an idea of what you’re talking about. You said you didn’t recognize the voice, but did it sound like the same caller as before?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
She paused for a moment. “You okay?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m scared.”
“I understand. I’m going to call your local precinct and request extra patrols.”
“I thought you and Ty already did that.”
“We did. I mean extra-extra patrols.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed. “Someone is listening in to my calls, aren’t they?”
After a chillingly long pause, she said, “Maybe. We’ll check it out.”
I tried to quiet my too-quick breathing without success. I stood off to the side of the window, out of direct view of anyone outside. Methodically, I looked through the hedge, seeking out something, anything, that would explain my accelerating apprehension, but again I saw nothing. I circled the house, watching, waiting at each stop for something to move or catch my eye, my breathing growing faster, not quieting down as I’d hoped. Someone was trying to scare me and it was working. I was worn to the bone with feeling helpless, and I
knew that the only antidote for fear was action.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Y
ou’re going to think I’m a scaredy cat, but I don’t want to stay here tonight,” I told Paige.
Paige, standing in candy-striped flannel pajamas, said, “How come you’re scared?”
I didn’t want to reveal the details, but I couldn’t think of how to avoid it. “I got a frightening phone call.” I shrugged and tried to smile. “I think it would be prudent to stay somewhere else tonight.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t need to be worried,” I assured her, wondering if it was true. “I’ve alerted the police and they don’t think there’s any danger.” I shrugged. “As I said, I’m a scaredy cat.”
She smiled. “Me, too.”
I smiled back. “So let’s pack up and head to Ty’s.”
“Is it okay for us just to show up?”
“Yeah.” I smiled again. “That’s what friends are for. He’s not there, but I have a key.”
I kept clothes and various grooming items at his place, so I had no need to pack, but Paige did. She was, presumably, returning to the Reillys’ tomorrow, so she needed to bring all of her stuff with her tonight.
Paige packed in ten minutes flat. Together we swung the heavy duffel bag into the trunk and loaded everything else into the backseat. I didn’t wait for the car to warm up; I just took off, and kept checking the mirrors to see if we were being followed. We traversed back roads thick with packed snow and shimmering ice, and when we arrived, I was confident that we were alone and safe. My eyes still on the move, I used the remote device that I kept in my glove compartment and parked in Ty’s garage. I exhaled, feeling as if it were the first clear breath I’d taken in a while, inordinately relieved that my car was out of sight.
Once we were inside, I reset the alarms that guarded the house and property, turned on lights, turned up the thermostat, and showed Paige to the guest room.
“I’m kind of keyed up,” I said. “I’m going to watch some TV. I know it’s late, but in case you want to join me, you’re welcome.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I know I couldn’t sleep either.”
I got her busy in the kitchen microwaving popcorn and, using Ty’s landline, called him on his cell phone. I didn’t want to use mine. The thought that someone might be listening to my calls completely terrified me.
The call went to his voice mail and, trying to keep it light so as not to worry him, said, “It’s me. I’m crashing at your place with Paige tonight. No biggy, but another crank call came in and I just plumb don’t want to be at my house, so here we are! I told Officer Brownley all about the call. Talk to you soon. ‘Bye.”
I considered waiting until morning to call Officer Brownley and tell her where to meet me, but then I remembered that the extra patrols she’d arranged would need to be redirected.
“I hope this is the last time I’ll talk to you today,” I joked.
“Not a problem. Actually, I was just going to call you.”
“How come?”
“You first,” she said.
“I’m at Ty’s. I just got too scared to stay at my place. He has an alarm system, so I feel safer here.”
“Fair enough, but you should have called and let me or a local patrol car escort you.”
“Yeah, probably. But it didn’t even occur to me.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re there.” She paused. “Josie? Don’t hesitate to call me. Anytime. Even if you think it’s silly. Okay?”
The compassion and caring evident in her words and tone brought unexpected tears to my eyes, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. “Thank you. That means a lot.” I cleared my throat. “So why were you going to call me?”
She cleared her throat. “Keep in mind, I’m no expert, but I asked someone who is. Basically, someone sends a short message to your phone, that, unbeknownst to you, creates a three-way call. He or she simply listens in.”
Unconsciously, I stepped back until my thighs touched a chair. I sank into it. “You’re kidding,” I said.
“No. It’s easy if you know what you’re doing. There’s a little reprogramming involved, but not much. It seems the three-way call is activated by your phone, so they’re alerted when you’re on the phone by their own phone ringing.”
“But wait! If it’s initiated by my phone, the three-way call charge will be on my phone bill.”
“Right. Except we already know the phone numbers involved—the disposable cell phones.”
My heart-pounding terror faded, replaced by righteous outrage. “I feel violated.”
“Yeah. Obviously, you shouldn’t use your cell phone until we sort this out.”
Paige came into the room bearing a huge bowl of buttery popcorn.
“Got it,” I said, forcing myself to sound competent, not panicked. “Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope! You’ve given me plenty to think about. See you in the morning.”
As I replaced the receiver, Paige asked, “Are you okay?”
I shrugged. “I won’t lie to you, Paige. This is an anxious time.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Do you know how to make a fire?” I asked, eager to busy my hands and mind.
“No. Is it hard?”
“Not if you cheat.”
She giggled. “What do you mean?”
“We use a Duraflame log, and stack wood on it. You can’t fail.”
I deputized her to hand me logs and showed her how to crisscross them so oxygen could flow. She observed the process with interest, and within minutes, we had a crackling fire.
Paige sat beside me on the sofa, clutching her knees to her chest as we watched a rerun of one of her favorite TV shows, Project Runway. I was pleased that she was animated as she voiced her opinions, but I knew that her grief and shock would return, catching her unawares, and casting her adrift once again. But for now at least, she was having some fun, and I was, too. But my neck and shoulders were aching with tension, and my pulse wouldn’t quiet.
Ty called at six the next morning.
“I just got your message,” he said. “Sorry I missed you last night—I crashed out early.”
“No problem,” I replied drowsily.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“I need you to try to focus. It’s important.”
“Later. Right now I’m in your bed, and you’re not here.”
“Officer Brownley is going to take your cell phone and give you a disposable one. She needs to take yours for audio analysis.”
“Uh-huh. She told me.”
“Make sure you don’t give out the number of the disposable one she’ll be bringing you. It’s important.”
I sat up, pushing aside the duvet, fully awake. “Jeez,” I said. “But if I call someone, they’ll know my number.”
“No, they won’t. It’s unlisted. Their phone ID display will read ‘private caller.’ ”
“Okay.”
“She said she’s meeting you at seven-thirty. What’s your day look like?”
“I’m taking Paige to see her lawyer at two and maybe to ballet at five. And if there’s time, I want to run over to Heyer’s and do some work on the installation.”
“In terms of the disposable phone she’ll be giving you, I’ll know the number and she will, and no one else.”
“What should I do about calls that I might get on my real phone? You know how much I use it. It’s my primary number.”
“Short term, check your voice mail, and tell us if any more calls like this come in. Long term, you’ll get the phone back eventually.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, I like the idea of coming home and finding you in my bed.”
I lay back down. “I was wondering if you were going to respond to that comment,” I said, fishing for a compliment.
“Oh, yeah, and as soon as possible, I’ll prove it to you.”
�
��Excellent,” I said, smiling, closing my eyes, relishing the moment.
An hour and a half later, Paige and I were in the car en route to my office, with Officer Brownley following close behind.
The threat that seemed so dire last night seemed less frightening this morning. And I was as eager as all get-out to tell Fred about the photocopied pages from a journal and to look at Rosalie’s desk in the light of day.
Fred, his tie loosened, looked up as we entered Prescott’s. Fred was a night owl, so it was surprising to find him at work at seven-thirty on a Monday morning.
“Fred!” I said. “What on God’s earth are you doing here at this hour?”
He glanced at his computer monitor to check the time. “I’m almost done.”
“You’ve been here all night?”
“Yeah.” His black, square-framed glasses had slid down and he pushed them back.
I wanted to pepper him with questions, but hesitated. He’d been working on Rosalie’s papers, and I didn’t want to create an awkward situation with Paige.
“Have you met Paige? Rosalie’s sister.”
“No.” He stood up and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Paige replied.
“Any news about the all-night project?” I minijerked my head toward Paige and grimaced, hoping he would interpret my signal correctly.
“Those papers you wanted me to sort through?”
Appreciating his discretion, I mouthed, “Good job.” Then aloud, I said, “Yeah.” To Paige, I added, “I’ll just be a sec.”
“No problem,” she said, ever patient, and sat down on one of the guest chairs and pulled out her iPod. Melancholy seemed to shroud her, simultaneously insulating her from pain like a protective cloak, yet also rendering her heart-wrenchingly vulnerable.
“I still have about a third of a box to go through,” Fred said.
“You sure you’re not too tired?”
He shrugged and stretched. “It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
“Have you found any photocopied journal pages?”
“What kind of journal?”
“I don’t know.”
He paused, reflecting. “Nothing like that, I don’t think.”
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