See Something, page 5
“I’d love to show it off.” My aunt beamed. “Follow me.” With O’Ryan in the lead, we followed her to the spacious office just off the living room. The door stood open as usual, and she switched on the overhead light.
Aunt Ibby’s office is worth showing off. Gorgeous cherry furniture—desk, bookcases, file cabinets, tables and chairs, with space for the three-screen computer, top-of-the-line copier, fax machine, phone, iPad, scanner, the spiral binder, paper cutter, and a few more sleekly designed gadgets I’ve never figured out—and books—lots of books.
Jane was clearly impressed. “Oh, wow! This is amazing. She moved into the room, peering closely at the computer screens. “Are you using QuickBooks?”
“Yes. Took a class at the library to learn it. Do you use it too?”
“I don’t know,” Jane admitted, “but I guess I must. Maybe I’m beginning to remember some more things.”
Another fact about Jane Doe’s past.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, hoping it really was. “I’m sure you’re going to be fine,” I added, hoping she really would be. “Let’s go upstairs and get you settled.” The second-floor guest room is very pretty—lots of pink—with a comfortable bed, an adjoining bathroom, and a good-sized wall-hung television. We climbed the front staircase and I opened the guest room door. “Oh, I love pink,” she said, noting the very feminine décor. I remembered her comment about pink pajamas. “I’ll run upstairs and grab some pj’s and toothbrush and comb and stuff for you. Be right back.” I really did run up the next flight, remembering the “keep an eye on her” admonition, even though I didn’t know what I was supposed to be watching for.
I have a good selection of pajamas—many styles and colors—ranging from basic to sexy. I selected a pair of plain cotton tailored pale pink ones with white piping and single breast pocket, and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, and put them into a reusable shopping bag from Shaw’s. Every time I have my teeth cleaned my dentist gives me one of those neat plastic zippered pouches with toothbrush, sample-size toothpaste, and dental floss. I grabbed one of those along with a comb that came with a gift pack from Ulta, and stuck them into the bag. I added a few paperback mysteries, a pen, and a brand-new composition book, still in its Staples bag, in case she wanted to make notes about memories as they occurred to her, and started back down the stairs. We’d figure out her wardrobe for tomorrow later. Her own clothes could probably be washed and dried by then anyway. I knocked on the still-open guest room door—not wanting to startle the poor woman, figuring that her nerves must have been pretty well frayed by then.
The television set had been turned on. I heard Howard Templeton’s voice. I didn’t have to look at the screen to know what she’d been watching. Jane Doe stood quietly in front of a window facing north on Winter Street. She’d pulled the sheer curtains aside. “I brought you a few things,” I said, putting the bag down on a flowered chintz upholstered chair.
She let the curtains fall back into place, turning to face me. “I saw it on the news. About that poor man—John Sawtelle—being murdered,” she said. “Maybe I actually do know him—and what if somebody out there is looking for me? Following me?”
Keep an eye on her. The words assumed new meaning. What if somebody is looking for her?
“Don’t worry,” I said, struggling to sound convincing. “You’re safe with us. We have a good alarm system. Pete will be here soon and I’ll ask him to stay the night.”
“Okay, Lee,” she said in a soft, almost little-girl voice. “If you say so. I don’t know what else I can do.”
“You’ll be fine.” Did that sound a little too hearty? I toned it down a notch. “I have to do a little work for my job. You can stay here and rest until Aunt Ibby’s friends arrive, or if you want to, you can come on downstairs with me.”
“I don’t think I asked you,” she said, her voice returning to normal pitch. “What do you do for work?”
I pointed to the TV where a commercial for Stowaway Sweets showed yummy chocolate fudge. “I work at WICH-TV. Program director.”
“Really? That sounds exciting. You’re so pretty though, I should think you’d be on a show where everybody could see you.”
“Thanks. I used to be a reporter. This—uh—promo-tion is recent. I’m just getting started.” I launched into an abbreviated version of my plans for a morning kids’ show starring a cowboy and a girl clown. “I’m thinking of a rodeo set. Split-rail fence. A bull chute where guests would run out onto the stage, maybe some circus props too. It’s still all a bit up in the air.” I had no idea whether any of it made sense to the woman.
“That must be an exciting job,” she said. “I guess I’ll come downstairs with you if you don’t mind. I promise I won’t say a word.” She made a zipper motion across her lips. “Quiet as a little mouse.”
“I’ll grab my briefcase and we’ll go to my aunt’s office.”
Once again, I trotted up the one flight, opened the orange door, and picked up purse and briefcase. Jane Doe waited for me in the hall outside the guest room, O’Ryan seated at her feet. “I see you have company,” I said.
“He’s very good company.” She bent to pat his head. “Good boy. I hope if I do have a cat somewhere, that somebody is taking care of him. Or her.”
I’d thought of the same thing, but hesitated to mention it. “Cats are very resourceful,” I told her. “Really clever. I’m sure it won’t be long before we learn who you are and where your cat—if there is one—might be.” We went downstairs again, and into the living room. “Aunt Ibby, “I called. “We’re back. We’ll be in your office.”
She popped her head around the corner from the kitchen. “I’ll let you know when the girls arrive. Meanwhile, I’ve put your things in the washing machine, Jane—all except your sweater.”
“Thanks so much. You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense. No trouble at all. But those shoes! What on earth have you been walking in?”
Jane gave a smile and a helpless little shrug. “Beats me,” she said, and followed me into the office.
CHAPTER 7
As good as her word, Jane sat mouse-quiet, but alert and interested while I worked. I made a few corrections on my hastily composed proposal for Ranger Rob’s Rodeo, added a space between paragraphs to make the double-spaced pages look like more than they were, edited and cropped color photos of Katie and Rob, inserting them where appropriate. I’d just printed out a title sheet in crisp black Bodoni bold when Jane broke the silence.
“Do you have any eight-and-a-half-by-eleven clear poly cover sheets?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we do,” I said. “Why?”
“I just thought if you made sort of a collage with those photos and your floor plan and that bull chute thing you were talking about, and maybe some black-and-white photos of the cowboy and the clown when they worked here years ago—then printed your title on it and used it under plastic for the cover of your proposal, then spiral-bound it, it would look more polished. Professional, you know?”
Jane Doe knows something about preparing proposals.
Before long, after raiding Aunt Ibby’s office supply cabinet, Jane and I—working together—had produced a dozen copies of what I’d call a polished and professional-looking presentation of a pretty hastily formed idea. As soon as I got Dakota’s artwork and mounted copies of it on foam board, this thing would look as though we’d worked on it for weeks.
We returned Aunt Ibby’s office to its original state of perfection and carried two neat stacks of our newly minted presentations up to my place. We were on our way back down the stairs when a hum of conversation and a few bursts of laughter announced that the Angels had arrived. We hurried back through the living room and into the kitchen. Aunt Ibby introduced Jane to the two as “Jane Doe,” so I knew she had told Betsy and Louisa about the woman’s sad predicament.
“We’re going to do everything we can to help you find your identity, my dear,” Louisa assured her.
“You bet,” said Betsy as she uncorked a cold bottle of rosé and headed for the living room. “Don’t you worry. Say, can I call you Janie?”
That met with a smile, a shrug, and a “why not?” With Aunt Ibby bearing a tray of wineglasses while I carried the wicker snack basket, it appeared that the evening was off to a good start.
We had a good fifteen minutes to spare before the start of Midsomer Murders, and the Angels lost no time in beginning their own unique style of investigation into Jane Doe’s real life.
“You appear to be a well-brought-up young person of culture.” Louisa spoke firmly. “Obvious good breeding.”
Betsy giggled. “She’s not a horse, Louisa.”
“Of course she’s not, but it works the same way. Mark my words, she comes from a distinguished bloodline.”
“Girls, you’re talking about Jane as though she’s not here,” my aunt scolded. “Jane, do you have any thoughts at all about family? Parents? Siblings? A home?”
Jane closed her eyes, sipped her wine, and put a chocolate-dipped pretzel into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The room grew silent. We all watched. Waited. Her eyes popped open. Lilacs,” she said. “There are lilac bushes in the yard. They smell wonderful.” She closed her eyes again, squeezing them tightly this time, her face scrunched up, forehead creased with the effort. “And I think—there’s that cat again. It’s black with a white front. How pretty.”
“A tuxedo cat,” Louisa said with an affirmative nod.
“Good job, Janie.” Betsy clapped her hands together. “Anything else?”
“You’ve made a good start on remembering things, Jane,” I said. “Do you think closing your eyes is helpful?”
She reached for another chocolate-dipped pretzel, then smiled. “Not especially. I think maybe it’s the chocolate and the wine.”
“They always work for me,” Louisa said. “And fortunately, we have a good supply of both.” This brought a chorus of laughter from the Angels and their new friend Jane. This was going better than I’d expected. The beginning credits for Midsomer Murders rolled. O’Ryan climbed into my lap, and talk of cats, lilacs, and chocolate ceased. The story line involved a real estate agent getting murdered in front of a crowd of people attending the unveiling of a collection of doll houses.
There was a fundraising break midway through the murders. “More chocolate? More wine?” Betsy suggested.
“Sure. Why not?” Jane, smiling, held up her glass. “This is a good show. I don’t think I’ve ever watched it before.”
“We find it instructive,” my aunt said. “We like the way the detectives deduce without a lot of violence. We watch Father Brown mysteries too. Perhaps you’ll join us for that.”
“I hope I can,” Jane said. “I’ll have to see what Detective Mondello says about it, and also there’s a chance my memory will come back soon and I’ll go back to wherever I belong. And mostly I hope you’ll all still like me when I get back to being whoever I am.”
There was a chorus of “Of course we will,” and once again, all eyes returned to the TV screen. O’Ryan abandoned my lap and streaked toward the kitchen. “I think Pete’s back,” I whispered. “I’ll let him in.” I followed the cat, who’d already scooted out the cat door when I got there. I peeked out the window and saw Pete’s headlights as he pulled into the driveway from the Oliver Street side of the house. O’Ryan and I were both on the back steps to greet him.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, after properly kissing me hello and patting the top of O’Ryan’s head. “Remembering anything?”
“A black-and-white cat and some lilac bushes,” I reported. “The Angels are grilling her gently.”
“The manager at the hotel recognized her photo,” he said. “She apparently occupied the room adjoining John Sawtelle’s.”
“Didn’t they have her name?”
“Nope. Sawtelle booked both rooms in advance with a company credit card. He apparently headed up a big real estate company in Brookline.”
Real estate? Like the Midsomer Murders dollhouse guy?
Pete continued. “He was supposed to leave today. The manager opened both rooms for us. Suitcases, personal stuff was all still there. And, by the way, the door between the rooms was locked from both sides.” We entered the kitchen and Pete motioned for me to sit in one of the captain’s chairs. He sat in another. “It doesn’t look like there was anything romantic going on between Jane and Sawtelle. Maybe she’s some kind of business associate.”
“What are you planning to do with Jane?” I wondered. “She’s getting along wonderfully well with the Angels—all three of them. They call her ‘Janie.’ ”
“I told you. She can spend the night. I’ll be here to keep an eye on things. Maybe we’ll learn more tomorrow. Then we’ll see.”
“Do you think she saw what happened to John Doe—Sawtelle?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
I thought of my vision. “Neither would I.”
I got the raised-eyebrow cop-face look, but no comment on my observation, which probably sounded a little creepy since I had no basis in fact to support it. Pete knows all about my being a scryer, but avoids what he calls “hocus-pocus” whenever possible. The moment passed.
“Everybody’s in the living room drinking wine, eating chocolate, and watching Midsomer Murders,” I said. “Want to join them?”
“Let’s go.” With a guiding hand at my elbow, he steered me back toward the living room, where all was dark and silent except for the glowing TV screen, British-accented crime-solvers, and the occasional dainty crunch of a chocolate-dipped pretzel.
CHAPTER 8
We each kept our seats in the living room after the end of the program. After my aunt turned off the set and substituted coffee mugs for the wineglasses, there was a brief discussion among the Angels about a new sleuthing technique used on the show, along with some excitement about the trick of killing someone in full view of a crowd at a dollhouse show. Jane, Pete, and I refrained from contributing to the conversation. Pete, because it’s his job to listen, me because I’d missed part of the show, and Jane—I didn’t know. She’d shown bright interest in what the other women had to say though, looking from one to the other as they spoke.
When the critique of the show was over, attention turned to Pete. “Have the police learned anything new about the case since you left us?” my aunt wanted to know.
“We have.” Pete’s voice was solemn. “We know the identity of the man found at Collins Cove this morning.” He focused his eyes on Jane Doe. “His name is John Sawtelle. Ring any bells with anybody?”
We all faced the woman, watching her expression. After what seemed like a very long minute, she leaned forward, facing Pete. “I saw it on TV. John Doe’s name is really John. Wouldn’t it be funny if mine is really Janie?”
“It’s not familiar to you at all, Jane?” Pete asked. “John Sawtelle?” He spoke the name carefully, pronouncing each syllable. He’s—was—the CEO of High Water Realty in Brookline.”
“Brookline? That does ring a bell. But does it mean anything? I mean, it’s just a city in Massachusetts, right? Maybe everybody knows that and it’s nothing special to me.”
“Are you planning to give Janie’s pictures to the papers and the TV stations?” Betsy asked. “I mean, what if Janie here saw John being murdered? What if there are bad guys looking for her? If they figure out who she is, wouldn’t she be in danger?”
Pete nodded. “Yes. It’s possible that she would. So for the time being we’re not releasing Jane Doe’s picture. We’ll continue to monitor missing persons reports and we’ve contacted Sawtelle’s main office. Jane, we believe the people there can tell us who you are. If you agree, I’d like to arrange for a female officer to drive you to Brookline tomorrow to find out if they can identify you, tell us where you live. It’s only an hour or so drive from here. Maybe if you go home—wherever that is—you’ll remember what it is you’ve blocked out.”
“It might be something bad, Janie,” I said, thinking of my vision, “but it’s surely important for you to remember who you are.”
“I agree,” Jane said. “Sure. I’ll do what you think is best, Pete. Is it all right if I call you Pete?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I have a feeling we’ll all be able to call you by your own name before long.”
I was already planning ahead for Janie’s journey to Brookline. Her own clothes would be ready by morning, except for her sweater. She’d need another sweater or a jacket and a handbag though, and some different shoes. “Do you plan to have the officer pick Jane up from here in the morning, Pete? If you do, we’re going to have to get her organized tonight.”
“Organized? Oh yeah. Clothes and stuff.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll fix her up with whatever she needs,” I promised. “Her own clothes are already in the dryer.”
Janie smiled in my direction. “I’m so lucky that I met you, Lee.”
Pete’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, and stepped out into the front hall. No one spoke. Aunt Ibby, always unerringly polite, turned the TV set back on so we wouldn’t appear to be listening to Pete’s call—which, of course, we were.
“It must be nearly time for the news,” she said, changing the channel to WICH-TV. “Let’s see what Buck Covington has to say tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter what he says,” Betsy offered. “I just like looking at him.”
Buck Covington is the station’s incredibly handsome nightly news anchor. His ratings are amazingly high for a local news show—probably because, like Betsy, a lot of women (and not a few men) in the audience just like looking at him. Buck provides not only excellent eye candy, but has the rare ability to read the teleprompter flawlessly all the time, never ever fluffing a word or a line. Mr. Doan says that otherwise the man is “dumb as a brick.” My friend River North thinks otherwise and the two have become the station’s “glamour couple.”
I’d expected that Buck would talk about the police identifying the murdered man—John Sawtelle—and I was right. An actual photo of the man had replaced the artist’s pastel rendering. I watched Jane’s face as Buck read off the facts known about the victim—the name of his business, the fact that he left a wife and one child, that according to his associates he had no known enemies. There was no mention of a companion accompanying him to Salem. Jane watched the screen with apparent interest, but without any indication of recognition.
