The Gift, page 4
part #1 of McKenna Mysteries Series
“Earth to Grace!” Barb’s voice interjected itself into the battle going on in her head.
“Barb, he’s on dating sites?” Grace asked as she launched herself up from her desk and peered over Barb’s shoulder at the screen, hoping not to be caught in a mental pause. The man’s face was kind, with eyes that seemed to greet his wide smile with open arms. Grace could tell he came from the same blood as Barb by the small hints of red that glistened amongst his thick brown hair, proof of their Irish descent. Barb had lost her shine to some dull strands of gray over the years, but like Barb, Eric had a smattering of freckles that danced on his upturned nose. He looked like the type of guy who liked to laugh and had an invisible bag full of go-to jokes that he pulled out to get a conversation going.
“He’s on a dating site.” Barb held up a chubby finger. “As in, ONE. I know, because I’m the one who convinced him to set up a profile,” she said as she puffed out her chest.
“You know how I feel about dating sites, Barb.” Grace slid back into her chair, defeated and already regretting her promise to go on a date with the guy.
“Listen, Princess, can’t you see . . . he is so much like you already! He didn’t want to go on a dating site, either. But good ol’ Auntie Barb convinced him.” She retrieved a container of Coffee-Mate powdered creamer from her bottom drawer and shook the container onto her Dunkin Donuts coffee until it turned into a mound on top of the brown liquid.
“Fine.” Grace looked at Eric’s photo one last time and rationalized that at least maybe she could learn a few good jokes from the guy. “And, why don’t you just have them put the creamer in when you order it at Dunkins?”
“Princess, if I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s that the high turnover at Dunkin Donuts makes for poor customer service and incorrect orders,” Barb said as if she was doling out the most useful piece of advice. “Mama has learned to take matters into her own hands. I order it black, and dress it up the way I want.”
“Whatever you say, Barb.”
“Hey, McKenna,” Connolly said as he sidled up to Barb’s desk. “Got a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?” Grace wasn’t sure why, but there was something about the man that made her nervous.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He rested his hands on his hips.
“Oh, you’re not interrupting anything here, Marky,” said Barb as she swiveled around in her chair to get back to work. “She’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” He turned and met Grace’s eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that if you need any help with the Waterford case, give me a shout.”
“Oh, thanks.” Had it been any other officer offering help, she would jump on the defense and assume they were doubting her abilities, but Mark Connolly was different. “But, you know how missing person cases go—there’s a good chance she’ll turn up after a wild night out or something.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head as a shy smile peeled across his lips. “I got a little sister about that age, so just wanna keep an eye out.”
“Oh . . . yeah. Of course. Totally understand,” Grace said, kicking herself for minimalizing the case.
“Thanks. Hey, here’s my cell, in case you need me when I’m off duty.” Mark slid a pen out from his front pocket and plucked a Post-it from Barb’s overstuffed plastic desk organizer. Grace knew that she could easily get his cell from the officer directory list, but kept quiet as he wrote down his phone number with his left hand. It had seemed so old fashioned to see a man write down his number, in the age when people were able to share contact information by tapping their phones. He gave a tight-lipped smile and stood there awkwardly for a moment.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll definitely keep you posted.”
“Thanks.” He started to turn on a heel. “I really appreciate that,” he said before walking back toward his desk, leaving a slight piney scent behind.
“What was THAT?” Barb swiveled in her desk like a schoolgirl.
“Turn around.” Grace tried her best not to let Barb get all fired up about something that meant nothing.
“Come on, Princess—he knows you can find his digits in the directory. YET, he felt the need to personally write them out for you, like you’re his little schoolboy crush. I’m just callin’ it like I see it. And what I see is a boy who wants a girl to contact him after hours,” Barb said, the words coming out in muffled whispers.
“Hush, Barb. The guy is just concerned about his sister.”
“You know what they say about protective big brothers.”
“Actually, no I don’t. What do they say about protective big brothers?” Grace said, trying to humor the woman.
“They make for sensational lovers.”
“Ew, gross! Enough! Connelly is my colleague and I’m not even remotely attracted to him,” Grace lied.
“Tsss.” Grace could see the laugh ripple its way through Barb’s body. “I question my sexuality, I’m ready to give men up altogether, and even I can’t help but get my panties in a bunch when he walks by.” She let out another clicking sound with her tongue. “Maybe it’s that delicious piney cologne he wears.”
“He doesn’t wear cologne. He’s far too modest for that. It’s deodorant.” The words spilled out of Grace’s mouth before she could stop herself.
“Ha!” Barb slammed a hand on the desk and turned around. “Well well, looks like our little Princess here has got herself a crush.” Barb’s eyebrows danced on her forehead as she threw a few seductive jumps and rolls into her shoulders. “Doesn’t mean you can bail on your date with my nephew, though.” She pointed a warning finger at Grace.
“Whatever, you don’t have to worry about that because I don’t have a crush and even if I did, I would NEVER date a colleague, so keep your dirty thoughts to yourself,” Grace said before she passed the threshold into her office, her safe haven. She picked up the phone and dialed the number to the Waterford residence.
“Hello.” The urgent voice came across the line halfway through the first ring.
“Hello, may I please speak to Mr. or Mrs. Waterford.” Grace always dreaded the first interaction with worried parents. She never knew if they were going to be angry and take out their aggression on her, or be so saddened that they couldn’t even answer simple questions. The potential and possibility of emotions on the other end could be anywhere on the broad spectrum of human nature.
“This is . . . ah . . . Mrs. Waterford.” A meek voice came through the line.
“Hello, Mrs. Waterford. This is Detective McKenna from the Bridgeton Police Department. I’m calling in reference to the missing person report you filed this morning.”
“Um . . . you better talk to my husband.” Before Grace could object, some high-pitched voices passed through the phone, then a deep cough, followed by a masculine voice.
“Hello, this is Anthony Waterford.”
“Hi Mr. Waterford. As I was telling your wife, I’m Detective McKenna from the police department.”
“Yes, I figured. Hi Detective McKenna. Thank you so much for calling. It’s been one heck of a morning around here.” His syllables were enhanced, making his words sound like they were coming from the lips of a newscaster.
“Yes, I can imagine,” Grace said, trained to sound compassionate, yet authoritative. It had been a hard voice to perfect, so contradicting. Right when you were sure that you had shown an ounce of your heart to prove you were the right fit to lead a case, you had to put your foot down and cut off the emotions that had a tendency to attach themselves to the family of the missing person, or the abused wife, or the neglected child. Although, Grace didn’t have children, so she had yet to know the undying love that goes along with being a parent. It had been easier for her to sleep at night after leaving a case like that. She could put those emotions away and close the drawer and not worry about a little one of her own sleeping across the hall under the same roof. While Grace had witnessed parents go wild for their children, unable to see their own erratic behavior, she couldn’t yet claim that feeling of love for herself.
“Mr. Waterford, I’d like to come by and meet with you and your wife. Get to know a bit about Mackenzie’s home life.” Demanding to visit a family’s home had always been one of Grace’s weaknesses, as she never knew if they would get defensive and try to refuse her visit. People were odd about their homes. Opening the door to someone’s house was another way to see into their life, to uncover more of who they truly were. Although in Grace’s case, all she had to do was seal the deal with eye contact.
“Please, Detective McKenna—call me Anthony.”
“Anthony, I’m sorry. I don’t think I caught your wife’s name,” Grace said, as she thought about the awkward exchange between her and the woman who answered the phone.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Beth is a bit out of sorts right now. I’m not sure she knows her own name. Kenzie’s disappearance has come as a shock to us all. It’s very unlike her to leave without telling us, and for such a long time. We’ve contacted all of her friends, but no one seems to know where our little girl is.” Grace could hear the desperation building in Anthony’s voice.
“Well, I am going to do everything I can to help you find her,” Grace said, as her eyes were drawn to the other side of the station. She followed Officer Jeffries’ stalky frame as it marched toward Mark’s desk, his face the shade of an angry red. She watched as he threw his arms in the air and words flew out of his mouth, escalating with each syllable. All Grace could make out was I just don’t understand why. . .
“Thank you, thank you so much, detective.”
“Your address is 109 Perkins Drive, correct?”
“That’s right. Will you be over soon?” A touch of urgency coated his question.
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
Grace carefully slid the file into her navy blue canvas bag, threw the leather strap across her chest and marched out of her office. “Barb, I’m heading out for an interview. Call me if you need anything, or if Chief Welch needs me.”
“Yes, dear.” Barb continued staring straight ahead at her computer screen, intent on punching some numbers into a database. “And what did I tell you about sucking up? It’s not flattering. You’re playing in a man’s world here, you need to start acting like one.” Barb had always given Grace a hard time about how she always brown-nosed Chief Welch. Grace couldn’t help it—the job was her world. She wanted to leave her mark on the police world and pave the way for female officers everywhere; if it meant sucking up a little bit to get good cases, then so be it.
“Bye, Barb.”
She hustled past the row of clunky metal desks and pushed her small frame through the double glass doors. The cold winter air nearly knocked her down, its grip raw and stealing the breath from her.
“Be careful. It’s icy out there.” The voice startled her.
“Thanks, Mark.” She turned back briefly to see a gloved hand wrapped around a small Dunkin Donuts cup.
“I’d give this to you to warm you up, but . . .” He held up the cup in an offering, before looking down into the Styrofoam, like he was looking down into a tunnel searching for answers. Something tickled at Grace’s insides when she was in the presence of the man, and she couldn’t help but think about his impeccably trained body. Every morning before his shift started, he would hit the punching bag and press and pull weights in the on-site gym. She had seen his well-developed back muscles through his sweat-drenched T-shirt when he walked by her desk to the showers. Tendons and veins carved their way down his forearms, and all it took was one glimpse for her to realize that he had a taut and toned ass to go with the package. She had seen him hit the bag so effortlessly and with the determination of a man on a mission, it made Grace wonder what exactly he was thinking about when he was throwing punches.
“No worries. I got one.” Grace held up her silver travel coffee mug. She felt his eyes penetrating the back of her head as she walked toward her Jeep.
She tossed her bag on the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel, giving Mark one more glance in the rearview mirror before gliding out of the lot.
Chapter Six
The neighborhood where the Waterfords lived was what Grace imagined the Stepford wives to inhabit. A group of mothers talked animatedly as they pushed strollers on the freshly cemented sidewalks. Unlike the New England that Grace knew, this section of town was brand new, each house pristine and complete with top-of-the-line fixtures and landscaping. All the houses were brick, as opposed to the multi-layered paint on the other homes so common in the rest of the town.
Grace remembered reading about this development in the Boston Globe when it was first built, Modern homes with old New England charm, Bridgeton is the future of small town living with a big city feel, the article had boasted. It was unlike Bridgeton to be featured in the Globe, but the new development had caused an uproar between the old townies and the new yuppies. The townies didn’t want the yuppies tearing down the old classics that their parents’ parents’ parents had built, and the yuppies didn’t have the patience to renovate one room at a time. Small towns, especially small beach towns, didn’t typically have the luxury of big yards and freshly built houses, but Bridgeton prided themselves on being the first along the east coast.
One of the three streets that was affected by the controversial development was Perkins Drive. Grace read the street numbers on the mailboxes, all in identical flowing gold font plastered on the black boxes at the end of the driveways. The driveways were massive, designed to hold the minivans and SUVs of today’s parents. Basketball hoops stood proudly on the side of nearly every driveway, flanked by sprawled out bikes. Where Grace had grown up, the residents knew better than to leave bikes out and unlocked. Anything that was left in the open had been up for grabs. Here, in this neighborhood, it was the middle of the day and surely kids were inside eating lunch or playing on their tablets, yet they left their belongings out like they were unsuspecting missionaries.
The summers here were probably bustling with family-fun activities. Grace pictured apron-clad dads at their grills bumping beer bottles and talking about sports and moms discussing the various activities offered at their local rec center. Rec centers didn’t exist in the rest of Massachusetts; old sweaty gyms that offered moldy steam rooms were the closest thing to a community center. The Waterford residence was at the foot of a cul-de-sac. While nearly identical to the other houses in the neighborhood, it lacked the seasonal décor that seemed to be planned out so the lights and ornamentation were uniform from house to house. From what Grace could tell, and from what she assumed the rest of the neighborhood felt, the Waterford family was slacking.
Three slow, deep breaths was tradition for Grace before she confirmed she had her lucky pen in the front pocket of her uniform and her grandmother’s gold cross dangling from her neck. Some would call her superstitious, but after thirty-six years of living with a “gift,” as her mother called it, she never knew when she would look into the wrong set of eyes and be pulled into a world of horror. While the visions showed her only brief flashes of time, those images burned themselves into her memory forever. It didn’t take much effort on her part to recollect the first image she saw back when she was three. The red-haired woman had essentially gone through life with her, making herself at home in Grace’s mind.
She stepped out of her car, her boot grinding into the salt on the pavement. The forecast called for snow, so naturally everyone in the area was preparing for the storm of the century. A man in a blue maintenance uniform looked up briefly as he maneuvered a bag of salt. His eyes darted from Grace to the Waterford house and back down as he went to work sprinkling the salt onto the pavement, creating an even coverage. The bag looked like it outweighed him by at least ten pounds. He hunched over and used his whole body to shake the contents out, making it look like he was a junior high student dancing with a girl for the first time, his eyes on the ground, his body full of awkward movements. A little girl on a bike with pink streamers and a purple basket came darting toward Grace from nowhere. She made a sharp turn into the Waterford driveway and came to a halting stop right beside her.
“Are you here to talk to my parents?” she asked, adjusting a ribbon of pale blonde hair that was sticking out of her helmet and plastered to her cheek.
“Well, that depends. Are your parents Mr. and Mrs. Waterford?” Grace gripped the strap of her bag and lowered herself so that she was eye level with the girl.
“Yesssss.”
“Well then, yes, I am here to see your parents. And what is your name?”
“My name is Penelope. But, my friends call me Penny. And my daddy calls me Penny Bear. What are all those ribbons on your shirt?” Penny pointed to the colorful line of ribbons that peaked out from behind Grace’s navy blue jacket.
Before Grace had a chance to explain, Penny pointed to the scar that was a straight line through Grace’s right eyebrow. “What’s that? Did you get in a fight?” she asked.
“Not really. This is a scar.” Grace pulled the gloves off her hands and took her pinky finger out to exhibit the small scar.
“Coooool! I think I wanna be a police woman when I grow up,” Penny said, her eyes wide, her lips pink and chapped from the cold. Grace was surprised the little girl was allowed to be out in the cold, although she wasn’t much different as a child, always outside participating in her solo outdoor adventures.
