See Something, page 11
“Anything?” I said.
“Just about. I told you he was a circus dog, didn’t I?”
Within ten minutes we had our sidekick. The Amazing Paco. I was relieved. Mr. Doan was happy. The sales force ordered a quick video of Paco jumping through a hoop, dancing on his hind legs, counting to ten with both barks and paw-taps. The animal was truly amazing. Rehearsals proceeded with a new enthusiasm. It was beginning to look as though we had a programming hit on our hands.
During the same week, Dakota met with Emily and after several hours, emerged with detailed portraits of the two men Emily claimed were present at the scene of John Sawtelle’s terrible death. Emily proclaimed Dakota’s drawings were spot-on accurate. Copies were distributed on police all-points bulletins. Television stations, including ours, displayed them with some regularity every day. One man, a brown-eyed blond with a crew cut, resembled an aging California beachboy, and the other with longish brown hair and a graying beard looked like a kindly high school English teacher. Actually he reminded me of a kindly high school English teacher I’d had in high school. Nothing particularly sinister looking about either of them. John Sawtelle’s records had made reference to a Salem real estate company called Waterview, but didn’t include names. The address of the company turned out to be a parcel service mail box. Not much to go on there.
At the house on Winter Street, the Angels were in full investigational mode. Meetings had progressed from occasional get-togethers for wine and snacks, British television mysteries, and gentle gossip fests to frequent evening gatherings around the kitchen table, complete with more library books, online chats, and some businesslike reports from each Angel regarding individual progress. I didn’t attend the actual meetings, just popped in occasionally to say hello. I was impressed with their diligence, but didn’t see any solutions to the mystery yet.
It turned out that Betsy may have worked her magic on the chief after all, because Emily got permission to come to our house for the weekly airing of Midsomer Murders. I had no intention of missing that meeting.
The condo Emily currently shared with her parents was just across the common on Washington Square, so it was a very short ride to our house. Emily arrived at the appointed time in a shiny, almost-new SPD patrol car, driven by my old friend and high school classmate, Detective Sergeant Joyce Rouse. Joyce escorted her to the front door, stopped long enough to exchange a few words with me, and promised to return at ten thirty, which allowed enough time for a little visiting before and after the show.
Emily gave me a hug and handed me a canvas bag. “Here are your clothes and shoes and handbag and everything. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.” I put the bag on the front stairs and took her hand. “Come on. They’re all in the kitchen dying to see you.” The Angels rushed to greet her and immediately peppered her with questions.
“Is it true that you remember everything?”
“I know a good lawyer. Do you need one?”
“Is that dress a Dolce and Gabbana?”
Answers were: yes, she remembers almost everything; no, thank you, she has one; and yes, the short-sleeved black shift with the amazing jungle graphic was a D & G.
We all returned to the living room, Aunt Ibby in the lead, bearing a snack-laden tray, followed by Louisa with wine and glasses. There was still time before the show was to begin, and the Angels each caught Emily up on their own investigations. Aunt Ibby shared a condensed version of the wetlands information she’d gathered. Emily expressed genuine interest, asking questions—especially about water depths and saltwater intrusion.
Betsy had involved herself with the real estate aspect of the matter, collecting pages of sales of waterfront properties in greater Salem. She’d telephoned an impressive number of buyers and sellers of the most expensive properties and had recorded the names and business addresses of the listing and selling agents.
Louisa had occupied herself by following the money trail. Hitchhiking on Betsy’s project, Louisa had found several of the high-priced properties that had been resold within a month of the original sale. She’d tried to match up agent names with subsequent sales, but so far hadn’t found any matches.
I really had nothing to offer so far. I yielded the floor to Emily.
“Thanks to Lee’s friend Dakota Berman, the police now know what the killers look like,” she said. “Thank you, Lee.”
I mumbled something appropriate and the Angels each voiced their approval. They all knew Dakota and all three owned at least one of his paintings. I treasure one of his early gravestone rubbings.
“It’s wonderful that now you’re able to help the police,” Betsy said.
“I hope I’m being helpful,” Emily said. “I talk to them nearly every day. I have to get permission to go anywhere.” She sighed. “The days seem very long. I’m bored. Even Fred Astaire seems bored. My dad is really sad about John Sawtelle dying like that, so he’s kind of quiet. They were good friends. I guess they used to go fishing together when they were young. It’s a good thing I like my parents. It’s like being quarantined with them.”
“Now that you’ve remembered your past, what about your job?” Louisa wanted to know. “Can you work from where you’re living now?”
Emily nodded. “Yes. That’s no problem. I guess by now you all know that I’m a forensic accountant,” she said. “That means that I can do a little more than figure out your taxes. My dad and I work together for clients who have more than the usual problems with finances. They come to us when they suspect that something illegal might be going on. Things like theft, fraud, or figures that just plain don’t add up. That’s the reason I came to Salem in the first place. It’s how I happened to meet John Sawtelle. My dad was supposed to make the trip, but he had a conflict so he sent me along to handle it.” She shrugged. “It didn’t appear to be overcomplicated. I believed it was just an honest mistake in calculating. We were here to simply check up on some real estate deals that didn’t look quite right and to check out a possible new listing for John’s agency.”
“Did you figure out what was wrong?” Aunt Ibby asked. “It must have been significant if it led to murder.”
Emily frowned. “Mr. Sawtelle went over the figures with me several times. There were some discrepancies. I remember him saying there was something more going on there, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He said the new listing was just too good to be true but was definitely worth checking out.”
“Did he give you any idea what it was he couldn’t put his finger on?” I asked.
“Not really. He thought maybe the men were planning to offer him a good deal on some prime property to make up for messing with the commission figures. The truth is, my dad and I and John Sawtelle’s office are still working on that. I’ll tell you this much. It’s much bigger than we thought. Uh-oh. Look.” She pointed to the screen. “Here comes Midsomer Murders.”
All eyes turned to the TV. Conversation halted as we focused our attention on the cozy villages of Midsomer County, awaiting whatever darkly humorous events might take place this time in the otherwise peaceful English countryside. But I couldn’t quite shake the dark, not so humorous events that were taking place right here in Salem.
CHAPTER 18
Our TV watching, wine and snack enjoying, investigation conversation, girl-talk evening ended all too soon as far as I was concerned. The Midsomer murder of the week had been titled “Baited Breath” and concerned a giant fish. Definitely a waterfront locale. Coincidence? At precisely ten thirty, the doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream.” Detective Sergeant Joyce Rouse had arrived to pick up her reluctant-to-leave charge.
I had so many questions I would have liked to ask. What did Emily mean by “it was much bigger than we thought?” What was much bigger? How had her talent as a forensic accountant helped the police? So many questions still unanswered. I could feel the imaginary investigative reporter hat sitting firmly on my head. But Joyce was firm too. Girl-cop face and voice in place, she rushed Emily out the door and into the back seat of the cruiser with only a hasty “Good night, ladies.”
I should try to stay focused the way Joyce does.
The after-the-show talk among the Angels buzzed around me as we trooped back into the kitchen for coffee. My inner Nancy Drew refused to be quiet. I needed to get some prints of Dakota’s renderings of the killers. I’d have to look up “forensic accounting.” I’d never even heard of it until very recently. What about all that flora and fauna lurking in the muck behind the yellow police tape? How much information will Pete share with me?
Can I concentrate on my program director job and work on the Emily matter at the same time?
“Sure you can,” inner Nancy shouted. “Just do it!” I decided to begin right away. Why not?
“Louisa,” I said, “Will you e-mail me a copy of your list of the high-end real estate sales you’ve been tracking?”
“Of course. Maybe you can make more sense of it than I did.”
“Worth a try,” I said, and promptly asked Betsy to share her list of phone numbers for buyers and sellers of those choice properties, and requested my aunt’s file on Salem’s wetlands. I excused myself from the Angels meeting. They were on second cups of coffee and a new round of cookies, but hey, none of them had a day job.
O’Ryan followed me into the front hall. Once again avoiding the mirror, I picked up the bag Emily had left and together cat and I climbed the stairs to home. I didn’t expect a visit from Pete, but he usually calls to say good night and I was pretty sure he’d be just a bit curious about what went on with the Angels and Emily. I put the canvas bag on what my aunt calls a “boudoir chair,” selected a pair of comfy flannel pajamas from the bureau, and with phone in hand, headed for the bathroom. O’Ryan followed, but gentleman cat that he is, waited outside the door.
I tossed dirty clothes down the laundry chute, and putting the phone within easy reach, sudsed, shampooed, rinsed, and toweled dry. I’d just pulled on the pj’s when the phone buzzed.
“Hi, Pete.”
“Hi. How’d TV night go?”
“It was fun,” I said. “Everybody had a good time. We all wished Emily could have stayed longer though.”
“Actually, she’s lucky she got permission to stay that long. I was surprised that the chief okayed it.”
Thanks be to special friendships!
“She really appreciated it,” I told him. “I could tell by the way she interacted with the Angels. But Joyce was exactly on time, both dropping her off and picking her up.”
“So tell me how it went,” he said. “Did you all talk about Sawtelle’s murder?”
“No. Not really. The Angels each talked about what they’d been working on. Louisa and Betsy seem to be mostly involved in the various real estate aspects. Aunt Ibby is studying up on wetlands. We were all interested in hearing about Emily’s job. I’d never heard of a forensic accountant before.”
“We had a class on it once at the police academy,” Pete said, “but that was years ago. I had to look it up myself. It turns out that our Emily Hemenway is one smart young lady.”
“We knew that when she was just Jane Doe.”
“I guess you all believed in her, didn’t you?” he said, “but the chief and I and Rouse, we have to look at the evidence. Your Emily isn’t out of the woods yet.”
“Out of the woods. That’s ironic isn’t it? She was literally in the woods when she witnessed a murder so awful that it erased her memory.” I felt sad as I spoke the words so I tried another subject. “How’s chances that you’re going to find the killers, now that you have good pictures of them?”
“You mean the alleged killers. They are good pictures,” he said. “Dakota is great at listening to a description from a witness and putting the face on paper. We’ve already had a few calls on one of them.”
“So you already have a name? That’s great.”
Short laugh. “Several names. No two alike. Looks like either all the callers are mistaken, or the guy has several aliases.”
“Can you e-mail me those pictures? For the Angels?”
Tolerant cop voice. “Don’t tell me those nice ladies think they might know these creeps.”
“They all get around in the world of high-income housing,” I said. “It’s possible.”
“True,” he said. “We’ve got some wanted posters already made up. Want me to stop by when I get out of here and drop some off for you?”
“You know I’d love to see you, but it’s late.” I knew the poor man had been working night and day on this. “You must be exhausted. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?”
“You have food?” He sounded surprised.
“Nope. But I’ll buy breakfast.”
“Good deal. Thanks. Love you. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
Kit-Cat told me that it was late, but inner Nancy was insistent that I stay awake for a while longer. I turned on the kitchen TV with the volume low to keep me company and pulled a fresh package of index cards from the junk drawer. I’ve always liked using the neat, lined oblongs for organizing my thoughts.
I pulled a few cards from the package and spread them on the table in front of me. O’Ryan watched with interest from the chair opposite mine. On the first one I wrote Emily says that the real estate matter they were checking on was much bigger than she and Sawtelle had thought. I added How?
Inner Nancy shouted, “If they knew it was a such big deal, why did he leave her alone in that car? Hmmm?”
I don’t know.
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
To the card, I added Ask Emily.
From the TV came the muted sounds of Danse Macabre, River’s theme music. O’Ryan’s ears perked up. He left his chair and trotted to the bedroom. I took the hint. Turning off the kitchen TV, I returned the cards to the junk drawer, carrying the single one I’d written on to my room, placing it on top of the bureau. O’Ryan was already in his TV-watching posture, facing the blank screen. “Okay. Let’s watch River in here.” I clicked on the television and climbed into bed, fluffing up the pillows, leaving room beside me for the cat.
River announced the late-night film—Stephen King’s The Mist. She was lovely in red velvet halter top and ruby drop earrings. There were two high-backed wicker chairs at the table where she’d be reading the tarot cards for callers during breaks in the movie. That meant that Buck Covington would be on hand to shuffle the deck. He often stayed after his nightly newscast and the audiences loved it when he was on camera with River.
I watched the movie for a while, but dozed off before River’s first reading. The dream seemed like part of the movie, only I’m in the mist—alone. I’m behind a tree, bare feet wet, flannel pajamas damp. I’m shivering, cold. I’m hiding here. But why? From what? I hear something. Voices. I peek out from behind my shielding tree. More mist. I creep closer to the sound. A voice calls “Run!” I turn to run away. I’m running deeper into the mist. I see a light ahead, and a blue fence—no, it’s blue bars. I stop running and walk slowly toward the light. I push open the gate and emerge from the bull chute and look toward the bleachers where two people are seated—two men with faces that look like drawings. I’m afraid. I don’t know why, but I’m very afraid.
I woke up with something soft touching my face. O’Ryan sat on my chest, his paw gently tapping, tapping. I hugged him. “Oh, thank you, dear cat. I was having a bad dream.”
He gave my chin a lick, then wiggled out of my arms and resumed his spot on the pillow next to mine.
The TV was still on. The overhead camera focused on the tarot layout. River had just turned over the two of swords. I watched as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the blindfolded girl alone on a park bench.
I turned off the TV and tried to go back to sleep, but gave up. Maybe the Angels had sent the lists I’d asked for. I got up, slipped my feet into bunny slippers, returned to the kitchen, and checked my e-mail. O’Ryan, yawning broadly, followed and sat on the windowsill behind me.
“Look at this,” I said to the cat, whose eyes were half shut. “They both sent their lists.” I hit the print button and waited for the printer to whirr to life.
“Meh,” said O’Ryan. “Meh. Meh. Meh.” He hopped down from the sill and headed back to bed.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re not important after all,” I said. “I’ll look them over in the morning.” I yawned, gathered up the printed sheets, paper-clipped them together, and followed the cat.
CHAPTER 19
Slanting rays of morning sunshine brightened the apartment as I got ready for my breakfast date with Pete. O’Ryan had already scooted out the cat door and was undoubtedly breakfasting with Aunt Ibby. By then, in the welcome light of day, I’d already decided that my weird dream belonged in the same category as nutty mirror visions. Undecipherable. I’d seen a shelf full of dream books at the Salem Library. Maybe I’d ask my aunt to bring home one or two volumes so I could figure out this mist-to-bull-chute saga just in case it made some sort of sense to the dream experts. Chalking the two of swords tarot card thing up to mere coincidence, I stuffed the paper-clipped copies into my bag, hurried down the stairs and out onto the front steps to wait for Pete.
His Crown Vic rounded the corner onto Winter Street, made a U-turn, and pulled up in front of the house. “You hungry?” he asked as I slid into the seat. “I’m starving.”
“Looking forward to breakfast, but not starving,” I reported. “I loaded up on snacks at the viewing party last night.”
“I brought you a few of those posters.” He pointed to a brown envelope on my side of the dash. “Enough so you can share them with your aunt and her crew.” He leaned across the console for a quick morning kiss, giving me an approving look. “You look especially pretty. Have a good night’s sleep?”
“Yes,” I fibbed. “Fell asleep before River’s first reading.” At least that part was true. “Thanks for the posters. I’ll be sharing them. I made some copies of the lists Louisa and Betsy shared with us last night.” I pulled them out of my bag and put them on the dash. “O’Ryan doesn’t think they’re important. Maybe you can make some sense out of them.”
“Just about. I told you he was a circus dog, didn’t I?”
Within ten minutes we had our sidekick. The Amazing Paco. I was relieved. Mr. Doan was happy. The sales force ordered a quick video of Paco jumping through a hoop, dancing on his hind legs, counting to ten with both barks and paw-taps. The animal was truly amazing. Rehearsals proceeded with a new enthusiasm. It was beginning to look as though we had a programming hit on our hands.
During the same week, Dakota met with Emily and after several hours, emerged with detailed portraits of the two men Emily claimed were present at the scene of John Sawtelle’s terrible death. Emily proclaimed Dakota’s drawings were spot-on accurate. Copies were distributed on police all-points bulletins. Television stations, including ours, displayed them with some regularity every day. One man, a brown-eyed blond with a crew cut, resembled an aging California beachboy, and the other with longish brown hair and a graying beard looked like a kindly high school English teacher. Actually he reminded me of a kindly high school English teacher I’d had in high school. Nothing particularly sinister looking about either of them. John Sawtelle’s records had made reference to a Salem real estate company called Waterview, but didn’t include names. The address of the company turned out to be a parcel service mail box. Not much to go on there.
At the house on Winter Street, the Angels were in full investigational mode. Meetings had progressed from occasional get-togethers for wine and snacks, British television mysteries, and gentle gossip fests to frequent evening gatherings around the kitchen table, complete with more library books, online chats, and some businesslike reports from each Angel regarding individual progress. I didn’t attend the actual meetings, just popped in occasionally to say hello. I was impressed with their diligence, but didn’t see any solutions to the mystery yet.
It turned out that Betsy may have worked her magic on the chief after all, because Emily got permission to come to our house for the weekly airing of Midsomer Murders. I had no intention of missing that meeting.
The condo Emily currently shared with her parents was just across the common on Washington Square, so it was a very short ride to our house. Emily arrived at the appointed time in a shiny, almost-new SPD patrol car, driven by my old friend and high school classmate, Detective Sergeant Joyce Rouse. Joyce escorted her to the front door, stopped long enough to exchange a few words with me, and promised to return at ten thirty, which allowed enough time for a little visiting before and after the show.
Emily gave me a hug and handed me a canvas bag. “Here are your clothes and shoes and handbag and everything. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.” I put the bag on the front stairs and took her hand. “Come on. They’re all in the kitchen dying to see you.” The Angels rushed to greet her and immediately peppered her with questions.
“Is it true that you remember everything?”
“I know a good lawyer. Do you need one?”
“Is that dress a Dolce and Gabbana?”
Answers were: yes, she remembers almost everything; no, thank you, she has one; and yes, the short-sleeved black shift with the amazing jungle graphic was a D & G.
We all returned to the living room, Aunt Ibby in the lead, bearing a snack-laden tray, followed by Louisa with wine and glasses. There was still time before the show was to begin, and the Angels each caught Emily up on their own investigations. Aunt Ibby shared a condensed version of the wetlands information she’d gathered. Emily expressed genuine interest, asking questions—especially about water depths and saltwater intrusion.
Betsy had involved herself with the real estate aspect of the matter, collecting pages of sales of waterfront properties in greater Salem. She’d telephoned an impressive number of buyers and sellers of the most expensive properties and had recorded the names and business addresses of the listing and selling agents.
Louisa had occupied herself by following the money trail. Hitchhiking on Betsy’s project, Louisa had found several of the high-priced properties that had been resold within a month of the original sale. She’d tried to match up agent names with subsequent sales, but so far hadn’t found any matches.
I really had nothing to offer so far. I yielded the floor to Emily.
“Thanks to Lee’s friend Dakota Berman, the police now know what the killers look like,” she said. “Thank you, Lee.”
I mumbled something appropriate and the Angels each voiced their approval. They all knew Dakota and all three owned at least one of his paintings. I treasure one of his early gravestone rubbings.
“It’s wonderful that now you’re able to help the police,” Betsy said.
“I hope I’m being helpful,” Emily said. “I talk to them nearly every day. I have to get permission to go anywhere.” She sighed. “The days seem very long. I’m bored. Even Fred Astaire seems bored. My dad is really sad about John Sawtelle dying like that, so he’s kind of quiet. They were good friends. I guess they used to go fishing together when they were young. It’s a good thing I like my parents. It’s like being quarantined with them.”
“Now that you’ve remembered your past, what about your job?” Louisa wanted to know. “Can you work from where you’re living now?”
Emily nodded. “Yes. That’s no problem. I guess by now you all know that I’m a forensic accountant,” she said. “That means that I can do a little more than figure out your taxes. My dad and I work together for clients who have more than the usual problems with finances. They come to us when they suspect that something illegal might be going on. Things like theft, fraud, or figures that just plain don’t add up. That’s the reason I came to Salem in the first place. It’s how I happened to meet John Sawtelle. My dad was supposed to make the trip, but he had a conflict so he sent me along to handle it.” She shrugged. “It didn’t appear to be overcomplicated. I believed it was just an honest mistake in calculating. We were here to simply check up on some real estate deals that didn’t look quite right and to check out a possible new listing for John’s agency.”
“Did you figure out what was wrong?” Aunt Ibby asked. “It must have been significant if it led to murder.”
Emily frowned. “Mr. Sawtelle went over the figures with me several times. There were some discrepancies. I remember him saying there was something more going on there, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He said the new listing was just too good to be true but was definitely worth checking out.”
“Did he give you any idea what it was he couldn’t put his finger on?” I asked.
“Not really. He thought maybe the men were planning to offer him a good deal on some prime property to make up for messing with the commission figures. The truth is, my dad and I and John Sawtelle’s office are still working on that. I’ll tell you this much. It’s much bigger than we thought. Uh-oh. Look.” She pointed to the screen. “Here comes Midsomer Murders.”
All eyes turned to the TV. Conversation halted as we focused our attention on the cozy villages of Midsomer County, awaiting whatever darkly humorous events might take place this time in the otherwise peaceful English countryside. But I couldn’t quite shake the dark, not so humorous events that were taking place right here in Salem.
CHAPTER 18
Our TV watching, wine and snack enjoying, investigation conversation, girl-talk evening ended all too soon as far as I was concerned. The Midsomer murder of the week had been titled “Baited Breath” and concerned a giant fish. Definitely a waterfront locale. Coincidence? At precisely ten thirty, the doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream.” Detective Sergeant Joyce Rouse had arrived to pick up her reluctant-to-leave charge.
I had so many questions I would have liked to ask. What did Emily mean by “it was much bigger than we thought?” What was much bigger? How had her talent as a forensic accountant helped the police? So many questions still unanswered. I could feel the imaginary investigative reporter hat sitting firmly on my head. But Joyce was firm too. Girl-cop face and voice in place, she rushed Emily out the door and into the back seat of the cruiser with only a hasty “Good night, ladies.”
I should try to stay focused the way Joyce does.
The after-the-show talk among the Angels buzzed around me as we trooped back into the kitchen for coffee. My inner Nancy Drew refused to be quiet. I needed to get some prints of Dakota’s renderings of the killers. I’d have to look up “forensic accounting.” I’d never even heard of it until very recently. What about all that flora and fauna lurking in the muck behind the yellow police tape? How much information will Pete share with me?
Can I concentrate on my program director job and work on the Emily matter at the same time?
“Sure you can,” inner Nancy shouted. “Just do it!” I decided to begin right away. Why not?
“Louisa,” I said, “Will you e-mail me a copy of your list of the high-end real estate sales you’ve been tracking?”
“Of course. Maybe you can make more sense of it than I did.”
“Worth a try,” I said, and promptly asked Betsy to share her list of phone numbers for buyers and sellers of those choice properties, and requested my aunt’s file on Salem’s wetlands. I excused myself from the Angels meeting. They were on second cups of coffee and a new round of cookies, but hey, none of them had a day job.
O’Ryan followed me into the front hall. Once again avoiding the mirror, I picked up the bag Emily had left and together cat and I climbed the stairs to home. I didn’t expect a visit from Pete, but he usually calls to say good night and I was pretty sure he’d be just a bit curious about what went on with the Angels and Emily. I put the canvas bag on what my aunt calls a “boudoir chair,” selected a pair of comfy flannel pajamas from the bureau, and with phone in hand, headed for the bathroom. O’Ryan followed, but gentleman cat that he is, waited outside the door.
I tossed dirty clothes down the laundry chute, and putting the phone within easy reach, sudsed, shampooed, rinsed, and toweled dry. I’d just pulled on the pj’s when the phone buzzed.
“Hi, Pete.”
“Hi. How’d TV night go?”
“It was fun,” I said. “Everybody had a good time. We all wished Emily could have stayed longer though.”
“Actually, she’s lucky she got permission to stay that long. I was surprised that the chief okayed it.”
Thanks be to special friendships!
“She really appreciated it,” I told him. “I could tell by the way she interacted with the Angels. But Joyce was exactly on time, both dropping her off and picking her up.”
“So tell me how it went,” he said. “Did you all talk about Sawtelle’s murder?”
“No. Not really. The Angels each talked about what they’d been working on. Louisa and Betsy seem to be mostly involved in the various real estate aspects. Aunt Ibby is studying up on wetlands. We were all interested in hearing about Emily’s job. I’d never heard of a forensic accountant before.”
“We had a class on it once at the police academy,” Pete said, “but that was years ago. I had to look it up myself. It turns out that our Emily Hemenway is one smart young lady.”
“We knew that when she was just Jane Doe.”
“I guess you all believed in her, didn’t you?” he said, “but the chief and I and Rouse, we have to look at the evidence. Your Emily isn’t out of the woods yet.”
“Out of the woods. That’s ironic isn’t it? She was literally in the woods when she witnessed a murder so awful that it erased her memory.” I felt sad as I spoke the words so I tried another subject. “How’s chances that you’re going to find the killers, now that you have good pictures of them?”
“You mean the alleged killers. They are good pictures,” he said. “Dakota is great at listening to a description from a witness and putting the face on paper. We’ve already had a few calls on one of them.”
“So you already have a name? That’s great.”
Short laugh. “Several names. No two alike. Looks like either all the callers are mistaken, or the guy has several aliases.”
“Can you e-mail me those pictures? For the Angels?”
Tolerant cop voice. “Don’t tell me those nice ladies think they might know these creeps.”
“They all get around in the world of high-income housing,” I said. “It’s possible.”
“True,” he said. “We’ve got some wanted posters already made up. Want me to stop by when I get out of here and drop some off for you?”
“You know I’d love to see you, but it’s late.” I knew the poor man had been working night and day on this. “You must be exhausted. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?”
“You have food?” He sounded surprised.
“Nope. But I’ll buy breakfast.”
“Good deal. Thanks. Love you. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
Kit-Cat told me that it was late, but inner Nancy was insistent that I stay awake for a while longer. I turned on the kitchen TV with the volume low to keep me company and pulled a fresh package of index cards from the junk drawer. I’ve always liked using the neat, lined oblongs for organizing my thoughts.
I pulled a few cards from the package and spread them on the table in front of me. O’Ryan watched with interest from the chair opposite mine. On the first one I wrote Emily says that the real estate matter they were checking on was much bigger than she and Sawtelle had thought. I added How?
Inner Nancy shouted, “If they knew it was a such big deal, why did he leave her alone in that car? Hmmm?”
I don’t know.
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
To the card, I added Ask Emily.
From the TV came the muted sounds of Danse Macabre, River’s theme music. O’Ryan’s ears perked up. He left his chair and trotted to the bedroom. I took the hint. Turning off the kitchen TV, I returned the cards to the junk drawer, carrying the single one I’d written on to my room, placing it on top of the bureau. O’Ryan was already in his TV-watching posture, facing the blank screen. “Okay. Let’s watch River in here.” I clicked on the television and climbed into bed, fluffing up the pillows, leaving room beside me for the cat.
River announced the late-night film—Stephen King’s The Mist. She was lovely in red velvet halter top and ruby drop earrings. There were two high-backed wicker chairs at the table where she’d be reading the tarot cards for callers during breaks in the movie. That meant that Buck Covington would be on hand to shuffle the deck. He often stayed after his nightly newscast and the audiences loved it when he was on camera with River.
I watched the movie for a while, but dozed off before River’s first reading. The dream seemed like part of the movie, only I’m in the mist—alone. I’m behind a tree, bare feet wet, flannel pajamas damp. I’m shivering, cold. I’m hiding here. But why? From what? I hear something. Voices. I peek out from behind my shielding tree. More mist. I creep closer to the sound. A voice calls “Run!” I turn to run away. I’m running deeper into the mist. I see a light ahead, and a blue fence—no, it’s blue bars. I stop running and walk slowly toward the light. I push open the gate and emerge from the bull chute and look toward the bleachers where two people are seated—two men with faces that look like drawings. I’m afraid. I don’t know why, but I’m very afraid.
I woke up with something soft touching my face. O’Ryan sat on my chest, his paw gently tapping, tapping. I hugged him. “Oh, thank you, dear cat. I was having a bad dream.”
He gave my chin a lick, then wiggled out of my arms and resumed his spot on the pillow next to mine.
The TV was still on. The overhead camera focused on the tarot layout. River had just turned over the two of swords. I watched as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the blindfolded girl alone on a park bench.
I turned off the TV and tried to go back to sleep, but gave up. Maybe the Angels had sent the lists I’d asked for. I got up, slipped my feet into bunny slippers, returned to the kitchen, and checked my e-mail. O’Ryan, yawning broadly, followed and sat on the windowsill behind me.
“Look at this,” I said to the cat, whose eyes were half shut. “They both sent their lists.” I hit the print button and waited for the printer to whirr to life.
“Meh,” said O’Ryan. “Meh. Meh. Meh.” He hopped down from the sill and headed back to bed.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re not important after all,” I said. “I’ll look them over in the morning.” I yawned, gathered up the printed sheets, paper-clipped them together, and followed the cat.
CHAPTER 19
Slanting rays of morning sunshine brightened the apartment as I got ready for my breakfast date with Pete. O’Ryan had already scooted out the cat door and was undoubtedly breakfasting with Aunt Ibby. By then, in the welcome light of day, I’d already decided that my weird dream belonged in the same category as nutty mirror visions. Undecipherable. I’d seen a shelf full of dream books at the Salem Library. Maybe I’d ask my aunt to bring home one or two volumes so I could figure out this mist-to-bull-chute saga just in case it made some sort of sense to the dream experts. Chalking the two of swords tarot card thing up to mere coincidence, I stuffed the paper-clipped copies into my bag, hurried down the stairs and out onto the front steps to wait for Pete.
His Crown Vic rounded the corner onto Winter Street, made a U-turn, and pulled up in front of the house. “You hungry?” he asked as I slid into the seat. “I’m starving.”
“Looking forward to breakfast, but not starving,” I reported. “I loaded up on snacks at the viewing party last night.”
“I brought you a few of those posters.” He pointed to a brown envelope on my side of the dash. “Enough so you can share them with your aunt and her crew.” He leaned across the console for a quick morning kiss, giving me an approving look. “You look especially pretty. Have a good night’s sleep?”
“Yes,” I fibbed. “Fell asleep before River’s first reading.” At least that part was true. “Thanks for the posters. I’ll be sharing them. I made some copies of the lists Louisa and Betsy shared with us last night.” I pulled them out of my bag and put them on the dash. “O’Ryan doesn’t think they’re important. Maybe you can make some sense out of them.”
