As he drew even, he gave me a slight smile and said, “I was hoping this was merely a social call, but from the look on your face I’d say it’s something more.”
“Good to see you, too,” I replied, following him through the door of the bakery. Michaelson ordered a coffee and we moved along the counter to wait for his drink. “How’s Grace?” I asked, inquiring after his teenage daughter.
“She has a new friend,” he replied with a grimace.
“I take it this is a friend of the male persuasion?”
“A spotty kid who thinks he’s God’s gift to football,” growled Michaelson, dumping six packets of sugar into his coffee and stirring vigorously.
“He must be pretty keen if he’s willing to face all this down,” I said, gesturing to Michaelson’s six-foot frame and his sturdy, muscular arms. “Not to mention the collective Stirling police force that will be keeping an eye out for one Grace Michaelson.”
“Keen and stupid,” Michaelson muttered.
“Not that stupid if he’s taken to your Gracie,” I pointed out. “I only dimly remember being fourteen, but for what it’s worth I think you’ll find this is just a flash in the pan. Can’t breathe without him today, banished tomorrow.”
Michaelson picked up his coffee and followed me to a small table in the rear of the shop. “I hope so. It’s times like this I really miss having her mother around. She’d handle this better than I do.”
I hesitated slightly, not knowing how to proceed. There were two reasons I’d contacted Michaelson. I wanted to find out what the blood work on Jenny Woodyard revealed once it was ready, and I was hoping he’d be willing to talk a little about his wife. I’d heard that she was hospitalized and dealing with depression, but it was a sensitive subject and one that we’d never discussed. Being around the ladies at the shelter, depression was a subject I suddenly wanted to know more about, and this was as good an opening as I was likely to get. “Does Grace ever see her mother?” I asked.
“Occasionally, but it’s pretty stressful for all of us. Now, what’s going on with you?” Michaelson skittered away from the topic again. “How’s Grant feeling?”
Michaelson had been the investigating officer when Grant was injured, and the two knew each other quite well. “Recovery’s been longer than we anticipated,” I admitted. “And of course he’s chaffing at the bit to get back to work, but some of the symptoms haven’t fully resolved themselves.”
“Sorry to hear that. And are you keeping out of trouble?”
“Been trying to focus on the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust these past few weeks. We’ve just started working with a women’s shelter in Edinburgh called the Shepherd’s Rest. Nice group of women, but they’ve had a spot of trouble recently.”
Michaelson rolled his eyes. “Here it comes.”
“Don’t be such a cynic.” I paused, looking for a more subtle approach, but gave up quickly. “One of the young women who’s a guest at the shelter was found dead in her room yesterday morning. The police seem keen to label it suicide.”
Michaelson lifted his hands in the air and sat back from the table. “Edinburgh is way outside my jurisdiction.”
“I know, I know. I was just hoping for a bit of, well, professional insight. She’d been struggling with depression and anxiety, according to some of the other girls. Not surprising under the circumstances.”
“What was she taking?” Michaelson asked automatically.
“Prozac.”
“That’s the standard. Doesn’t mix well with alcohol. Was she drinking heavily?”
“Define heavily. She’d been drinking, but I don’t know how much. The point is the police maintain she’s a classic suicide risk. The folks at the shelter have tried telling the police they don’t believe she killed herself, but given that Jenny was a victim of recent abuse and taking Prozac, they aren’t getting much traction. I’m afraid the police are just looking for an easy answer. An overdose, accidental or intentional, fits the bill. I just thought that someone with a better understanding of the issues faced by victims of depression might have a different take on this,” I finished tentatively.
Michaelson stared into his now empty coffee cup, spinning it round between his hands. “Depression and its kin are misunderstood by most people who aren’t directly affected, but this case is not in my jurisdiction. I can’t get involved.”
“All I wanted was a quick look at the toxicology report they did on Jenny.”
Michaelson’s eyebrow arched. “That’s all? I can’t just hand over police evidence, Logan.”
“But you could make an excuse to see the report and let me know if there is anything odd.”
“Do your friends at the shelter know you are sticking your nose into this?”
I nodded. “They specifically asked for my help and so did Reverend Craig.”
Michaelson sat for a few moments, peeling the sleeve off his coffee cup in strips. “I have a friend at the regional lab who owes me a favor,” he said finally. “I’ll see if she’ll talk to me, but I make no promises.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you trying. Jenny seemed like a young woman who was starting fresh, finally getting her life back together. I just can’t believe she’d want to end it now.” I watched a shadow pass over Michaelson’s face.
“Depression is always there, lurking under the surface no matter how much you medicate. One day everything is fine; the next you can watch the person you love drowning under a wave of despair.”
I waited patiently. I knew this was tough and I didn’t want to press Michaelson farther than he was willing to go. “Depression can be triggered by any number of things. For my wife, Barbara, it was childbirth. After Gracie was born she fell into a deep depression. At first the doctors insisted it was just a touch of postpartum depression, but when she tried to harm the baby and then herself, they finally acknowledged that it was something more significant.” Michaelson looked off into the distance and I continued to wait. “That started a long trail of medication and therapy and more medications. It’s a painful thing to admit, but sometimes there is no cure. The best you can hope is to manage the symptoms.”
I reached across and quickly gave Michaelson’s forearm a squeeze. I knew he’d hate any overt expressions of sympathy, but the gesture was instinctive. I was trying, but I could only dimly understand the pain he was going through. “If someone was taking their meds and managing the symptoms of anxiety or depression, would they be able to function in a normal work environment?”
“Oftentimes yes. Depends how bad the symptoms are and how regularly you take your meds.”
“But from what you are saying, it sounds like even if you are coping you can still fall off the deep end. For someone who’d been abused, would sexual harassment or assault be the kind of trigger that could cause all of those emotions to bubble to the surface?”
“Quite possibly. Even for someone not suffering from anxiety or depression, that kind of behavior can destroy a person’s confidence and sense of self. Do you have evidence that this has been going on?”
“Sadly, yes. One of the board members, Duncan Ross, has been using the shelter as his own personal childminding agency. Unfortunately, when he gets home and the kiddies are in bed, he feels he has the right to demand additional services from the girls.”
“And you’ve got this information from multiple sources?”
“Yes.”
Michaelson shook his head. “You’ve been busy already. Anyone willing to press charges?”
“Not so far, but Jenny was at his house that night.” I leaned forward, dropping my voice slightly. “If I can establish that something happened in the house that night that ultimately resulted in her death—”
“That’s a tall order,” Michaelson interrupted, “and more important, not your job.”
I ignored Michaelson’s admonition and plowed on w
ith the theory forming in my head. “A sexual assault by Ross could’ve pushed her over the edge, but what if the Prozac Jenny took when she got home wasn’t the only drug she’d had that night?”
“You think Ross might have slipped her a mickey?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Not a bad theory, but date rape drugs don’t stay in the system long at all. It’s one reason they’re abused so much. By the time the blood work was done there may not have been much of a trace at all. It could be almost impossible to prove.”
“Still worth looking, isn’t it?” I pressed.
“Yes,” Michaelson conceded reluctantly. “I’ll let you know what I find out, but the police in Edinburgh will get the same information and they will ask the questions that need to be asked, not you. Remember that.”
“Of course,” I replied, crossing my fingers in my lap.
* * *
—
Dragging into Edinburgh four mornings a week was starting to get old, but I kept reminding myself it was only for five more days and I was learning so much. My phone buzzed insistently as I sat in traffic on the A90 wondering for the millionth time why the roadwork barriers were needed when nothing seemed to be happening for miles around. Not one truck, not one safety vest. I answered the phone with a quick flick of the thumb on the steering wheel, expecting Patrick.
“Abi?” The disembodied voice echoed inside the car.
“Amanda?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry to disturb you. I know you’re heading to class, but I need help and I just didn’t know where else to turn.”
I could tell from the slight quaver in her voice that she was struggling to hold her emotions in check. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sheila. She’s gone missing.”
Chapter 8
I straightened in my seat. “When?”
“Best I can tell, overnight at some point. That’s the thing, I don’t know exactly. Nora said her mum came to bed about ten. She thinks she heard her get up again around one, but didn’t think anything of it. Figured she was going to the loo, but when I arrived this morning there was no sign of Sheila and no note.” Amanda paused and blew her nose. “The police don’t seem worried at all, they just insist on asking questions about her relationship with Jenny. It makes no sense.”
“They might be concerned that Sheila had something to do with Jenny’s death and did a runner,” I observed.
“That’s crazy. Sheila would never have hurt Jenny, and she’d never have gone anywhere without Nora,” Amanda insisted. “Never. Nora was Sheila’s number one priority, and if she had some kind of an emergency, she’d have left a note.”
I’d only met Sheila a couple of times, but I had the clear sense of a woman who was considerate and dependable. Not at all careless, and certainly not the type to walk away from her own child. Her unexplained absence was alarming. I cut through the lane of traffic next to me and veered off onto the Queensferry Road exit, turning south toward Morningside. “Hang on,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
When I pulled up in front of the Rest, Amanda was sitting on the front steps, her knitting needles a blur in her lap. They were rapidly becoming my barometer of her mental state. “I’m so sorry to drag you here again. You’re going to think you’ve made a terrible mistake getting involved with this mad henhouse.”
I shook my head dismissively. “Not a problem. Tell me what you told the police.” I followed Amanda inside and into the kitchen. It seemed empty without Sheila’s expansive presence.
“I stopped by the Rest on my way to work and came through to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. Usually Sheila would be down here making eggs and toast for Nora and the others who had to be out to work early, but the kitchen was dead quiet.” Amanda went through the motions of putting on the kettle, but her focus remained with me. “Karen was in here eating some corn flakes, but she hadn’t seen Sheila. I went up to the room she and Nora share and found Nora still asleep. She panicked when she realized she was late for school.”
“And she had no idea where her mum might be?”
“None. But I didn’t want to upset her. I said I was sure Sheila left a message with someone and we’d get it all sorted. Then I shifted her out the door to class.”
I nodded slowly. “Have you looked around Sheila’s room?”
“The police took a quick look, but they were more focused on talking to the residents. They questioned everyone who was here and said they’d be back again this afternoon. They want to talk to you as well.”
“Me?”
“You saw her yesterday. The officer left a card and asked you to stop by to give them a statement.”
I slipped the card in my pocket. I’d stop by later, not right now. “How about showing me Sheila’s room,” I said.
“So you believe me?”
“Of course.” I had no idea what had happened to Sheila, but I didn’t believe in coincidence. One death, one disappearance, and Urquhart’s constant drumbeat about moving the shelter. Something was wrong here.
We climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and went down a narrow hall to the door with a child’s drawing taped to it. The words Sheila and Nora were printed along the top with a brightly colored rainbow underneath. Amanda retrieved a key from the top of the doorjamb and used it to unlock the door. So much for security.
“Sheila chose this room because it was larger than the others, but also out of the way. It’s been a nice little nest for her and Nora.”
We entered the room and found two beds, one on either side of the room. The one on the left was clearly Nora’s space with books, stuffed animals, and clothes strewn all over the bed and floor. Two chests of drawers stood against the wall, one with a drawer open and clothes leaking out onto the floor. A large piece of painted wood had been placed over the three-foot space between the two dressers, creating a makeshift desk.
The other side of the room held a second twin bed, an armoire, and an armchair with a table and a lamp next to it. A collage of children’s artwork decorated the wall with rainbows and flowers, giving the space a cheerful feel; spare yet cozy. Temporary or not, this was a home.
I peered into the armoire and saw four dresses and two cardigans hanging next to a pair of jeans. T-shirts and underwear were stored in boxes on the floor of the wardrobe along with shoes and a black handbag. I pulled the purse out and carried it over to the bed. Amanda joined me and we dumped the contents onto the blanket. Amanda held up a red canvas wallet.
“Where would she go without this?” she asked, opening the wallet and displaying a bus pass, cash, and an expired driver’s license.
“Not far,” I agreed. “Did the police see that?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed in.”
“What I don’t see is a cellphone,” I noted. “Hopefully that means she has it with her. Have you tried calling?”
“Yes. Over and over again, but no answer.”
I continued to dig through the bits and pieces on the bed. They lay there like the flotsam and jetsam of a life. A nail file, a pack of gum, three lollipops, a brush, two fat hair grips, a grocery list, a recipe from a magazine for vegetable lasagna, lip gloss, and a large can of hairspray. It painted the picture of a mother, a cook, and a woman who knew how to defend herself. In my days in London, most of us carried hairspray in our purses. A direct shot to the eyes could usually stall an attacker long enough to get away without being classified as an illegal weapon like pepper spray.
“What about Sheila’s husband? Was he ever around?”
“He’s been in jail for the past four months. Sheila became much more relaxed and self-confident once he was locked up.”
I searched the rest of the room and found nothing that jumped out at me. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Just down the hall.”
I followed Amanda and
looked around the tiny space. There were signs of a hasty morning tooth brushing by Nora and a brush left balanced on the edge of the sink. A contact lens case sat on the shelf above the sink. I flipped open the two cups. Both contained a lens. “These Sheila’s?”
“Yes, but she sometimes just wears glasses, especially late at night.”
I hadn’t seen glasses in the room or here in the bathroom. Safe to assume Sheila was wearing them when she left. “Any sign of a break-in downstairs?” I asked as we retraced our steps back to the kitchen.
“The front door was locked. The back door was just on the latch, but a couple of the girls had already left for work by the time I saw Nora on her way to school.”
“Any other way in?”
Amanda considered the matter carefully. “Not really. There’s the old coal chute in the basement. Greer and Colin converted it when they started delivering fruit and veg. It’s easier than hauling the crates up the front steps and then down into the cellar.”
“Can I see it?”
Amanda led the way to the door at the top of the narrow flight of stairs that connected the kitchen and the basement. Halfway down the stairs Amanda flipped a light switch and two overhead bulbs illuminated the low-roofed space. Herbs still hung from the ceiling to dry and on the wall opposite the stairs there were five white plastic containers, considerably less than the last time I was down here. “What happened to the rest of the Templeton’s containers?”
“They took a big load out yesterday to deliver to one of the local restaurants. The boxes come and go. Sometimes we have a lot, sometimes just a few.” I peered into two of the wooden crates on the top labeled SR. Onions and shallots in one and carrots in the second.
I examined the coal chute. It was padlocked from the outside and a pile of empty crates blocked the stairs. Not likely anyone had entered the building that way.
“Should I try to call Sheila again?” Amanda asked.
“I’d keep on trying, at least until the battery goes dead.” I watched Amanda dial Sheila’s number and I continued to poke around in the basement, looking in the dark corners with the light from my phone.
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