A Charmed Place (47 page)

"Ah, here they are in
London
," he said, instantly recognizing the landmarks. There was a shot of three kids on the bank of the
Thames
, lined up according to height by their doting father. Three kids, feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square
... gazing up at Big Ben
... waiting at one of the gilded gates to
Buckingham
Palace
.

Not all of the photos were taken in
London
; there were four pages devoted to photographs of the three children at what was undoubtedly a university, probably
Oxford
, judging from the Gothic spires. Yes
... here was a clipping from a newspaper, yellowed with
age, recounting Edward Timmons
's lecture at a conference there.

"It's nice that he took his family along," said Hawke, pleased by the fact. He could never have taken his own kids to a war zone—another disappointing epiphany for him.

He was about to turn the thick, heavy page of the album, but something had snagged in his brain like a burr on a sock. He looked at the clipping again.
 

Dr. Edward Timmons, an American scientist distinguished for his research in particle theory, spoke here on Monday at the invitation of the University.
 

Hawke read it through and found nothing more than a nice, respectful piece about what a respected presence Edward Timmons was in the scientific community. He was about to shrug off the odd sensation that had gripped him when his gaze fell on an adjacent article, one that hadn't been completely scissored out. Ah. It must have been the dateline that had caught his eye: Woodbine, Oxfordshire. Woodbine; it was an unusual name. He
kept reading.
 

A local minister, the Reverend Peter Tolley of Christ-at- Woodbine Church, has filed civil charges on behalf of his congregation against Dr. Clive Joyce, a self-proclaimed spiritualist who is alleged to have defrauded members of the church in a deception known as "billet-reading,'' in which the performer purports to divine the contents of a note in a sealed envelope.

Joyce, it is claimed, waived his usual admission fee in favor of a voluntary collection by members of the congregation. At least one parishioner, an elderly widow, is alleged to have donated £50 at the
 

And that was all. There was a photograph—part of a photograph—of a man standing with what looked like adoring fans.
Dr. Clive,
the caption read; the Joyce part of the name was cut away.

Hawke went back to the face in the photo. No doubt about it: Dr. Clive Joyce, the guy with the movie-star looks, was none other than Geoffrey Woodbine a quarter-century earlier. The face, with its dark wavy hair and square jaw, was easily recognizable. Movie-star types were like that.

If he needed a clincher, Hawke found it as he turned the page, looking for the rest of the article. Edward Timmons's long-sought address book was wedged there, no doubt forgotten by him in his own excitement at making the Joyce-Woodbine connection.

Hawke turned to the "W" page in the address book. The last entry there was for "Geoffrey Woodbine, aka Clive Joyce." It included the Institute's address, business phone, and fax number. Edward Timmons was nothing if not methodical.

Trying to mask his excitement, Hawke turned to Norah. "Does your phone work?"

"It's the one thing that does," she said, pointing to one in the hall. "We never lost service at this end. Who on earth do you plan to call?"

"Too long to go into," he said, walking straight to the hall. He tried to remember Detective Bailey's home phone, blew it on the first try and got it right on the second. It was late, after ten. The wrong number had been very annoyed; Bailey was not.

Hawke brought him up to speed on
the discoveries in the album and the threatening note to Joyce
—
not a woman at all; Maddie would be ecstatic to learn it
—
that he'd found in Edward Timmons's computer.

The detective heard him out and said, "Okay—who the hell is Woodbine?"

Hawke told him what he'd learned about the director at the fundraiser, then said, "He's not on your list of motorists who were ticketed that day in
New Bedford
? He's
got
to be!"

"No way. I've memorized the names. Although—wait a minute. There was a car registered to a company in
Brookline
. Uhh, lemme see, I got the list right here—yeah. BIRP. Which you're saying could be—"

"Brookline Institute of Research and Parapsychology."

"Hold it; let me write that down. Great. Now tell me why this guy was in Timmons's family album."

"Pure serendipity," Hawke said. "If someone had clipped the article on Ed Timmons properly, we wouldn't have had this scrap of information. But they wanted to keep the clipping square, maybe to allow the paper's name to show. Obviously the Clive Joyce story with its Woodbine dateline had sunk into Ed Timmons's subconscious over the years."

"I've had that kind of thing happen to me," the detective agreed.

"When Timmons found out through his son-in-law that a guy named Woodbine was doing psychic research, it must have rung a bell. Timmons was a physicist, after all. He'd look at parapsychology with a jaundiced eye in the best of times—and he knew, from the article still attached to his own, that this guy was a con to boot."

"And when Timmons found out that Woodbine was interested in his granddaughter, he naturally would've gone ballistic," said the detective, building on Hawke's theory. "Timmons would've thre
atened to expose him. Woodbine-
Joyce couldn't have that; he's the director of a big deal research institute—well, you got your motive right there. Hint of scandal, the funding dries right up. Was there a photo?"

"Not a great one. But he's a striking man; the photo's good enough. Besides, Timmons could have done a little research on his own. It wouldn't take much to finger Woodbine as Joyce. Match the accent, match the age, match the subject interest, and Bob's your uncle."

"What?"

"It's a British expression; I have no idea what it means," Hawke said with a laugh. He was ecstatic. This was it, the break they'd been looking for. Serendipity, hell. This was destiny.

Hawke said, "When do you want all this stuff?"

"
The sooner the better. We have software that can recover files that have been deleted; maybe there's something else useful on the backup disk."

"I'll bring everything first thing in the morning."

"Good. And we'll bring this guy in for questioning second thing in the morning."

"You got it."

Hawke hung up, his adrenaline flowing now. If he could nail Woodbine, justice would be served on more levels than one. He'd vindicate himself with Maddie and with her family, and, oh, by the way, Michael Regan's a kook, hanging around with a fraud psychic. No judge in the land would let him have custody.

He tried not to think of whether or not Tracey's heart would be broken in the bargain. He knew that Maddie was the infinitely better parent; you didn't have to be one to know one. King Solomon would consider this a no-brainer.

He came back into the gathering room and scooped up the album, then turned to leave.

"What is going on?" Norah asked, barring his exit with outspread arms.

"You've helped solve a crime and you've saved my life, that's what. Norah, I'm forever in your debt. Thank you for the shower. Thank you for the wine. Thank you for the phone. And thanks for not—you're a doll."

He kissed her c
heek, ducked under her arm and
left her in her cavernous room of white. Grateful that he'd brought his Jeep, he threw it in gear and made his way back from the bright lights of Norah's neighborhood to the dark streets of town. He wanted desperately to pound on Maddie's door and tell her what he'd discovered, but it seemed the more prudent thing to get the investigation off and running first.

But as he drove down
Water Street
past Cranberry Lane, something made him pull over. He parked his Jeep at a cockeyed angle a little off the road, and approached
Rosedale
on foot. He had no intention of letting Maddie know he was there; he simply wanted to be as close to her as he could get, if only for this one exultant moment.

Cranberry Lane was cleaned up but still pitch-black, and he had to pick his way slowly down it. Eventually his eyes adjusted to the dark and he was able to see that the downed maple had been cut up and cleared away from Maddie's drive. So had her crushed Taurus. She had a new car there now, a Voyager that was maybe a rental. The plywood had been pried from the south side of the cottage, and an oil lamp burned on a low flame in one of the opened windows.

It was all very quiet, all very quaint. He thought of Maddie, sleeping upstairs, and his heart settled down to a reassured, steady thump. He gazed up at her bedroom window in the tiny dormer and whispered, "Please hurry up, Maddie. Don't wait until I'm an old man."

And then he left.

Tracey stepped over her girlfriends' sleeping forms
, tiptoed over to her purse, lifted out her cell phone,
and sneaked down the hall to the guest bathroom. The grandfather clock on the downstairs landing tolled seven times as she punched in her father's phone number. She didn't dare wait any longer; what if he went out for breakfast?

The voice that answered didn't sound like her father's at all. It was sleepy—well, that wasn't surprising—but it sounded funny, like a snarl.

"Dad?" she said, because she really wasn't sure.

"Yeah, what."

"Dad? It's me, Tracey," she whispered, confused.

"What do you want?" he asked in a growly voice.

Really, it didn't sound like him at all. It made her favor all the harder to ask. "Dad, I know you're s'posed to pick me up at lunchtime, but, like, could you come get me sooner? Like
... now?''

"Now? What the hell for?"

She swallowed hard. "
Well, I was thinking
... I was up all night, just thinking, and
... like
..." She sighed, unable to phrase her request in a way that wouldn't hurt her father's feelings. "I want to go home," she said plaintively.

"I'll bring you home later. That was our plan."

"No, I don't mean home to your place, Daddy. I mean home
... to Mom.
Home
home."

Her father said nothing. Nothing at all. She sighed, distressed that she had ended up offending him after all, and after s
he had tried so hard not to. "
I kind of miss Mom, Dad, you know? And I don't care if
there's no electricity in
Rose
dale
. I really don't, even if you do tease me about being spoiled. I can take showers at Aunt Norah's. I thought you could take me to
Rosedale
now, before there's a lot of traffic. That would be pretty easy, wouldn't it? Dad?"

Her father didn't even think about it.
 
"No!"

It felt as if he had slapped her in the face. Her cheeks burned from the answer. She felt all hot and upset inside. "Dad, why not?" she said, stunned.

"Absolutely not, God damn it! We made a deal!"

"But it was only temporary! Dad, I want to go home!" she said. Her voice sounded much too high and loud; someone was bound to hear her. With an effort, she made herself calm down to a whisper. "Dad,
please."

"You heard me, Tracey. We stay with the plan. Go back to sleep."

Over her protests he hung up, leaving her pleading with empty air. Tracey began to punch in his number again, but she knew her father well enough to know that he must be in the grip of one of his vicious headaches. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he just didn't want her to go back home because down deep he hated her mother for what she'd done with Mr. Hawke. She never should have told her father about that. Now she was trapped, and it was her own fault.

She held the phone next to her breast and rocked back and forth as she sat on the side of the tub. What could she do? What could she do? Tears sprang up, the way they always did lately. She brushed them away, determined to act like a grown-up. What would a grown-up do?

Dial 411.
It came to her in a flash of determination. When the operator answered, she said, "The number for Yellow Cab, please?"

****

Hawke arrived at the station in Millwood, one of the jumble of small towns that arced around
Boston
, not long after Bailey's shift began.

The detective offered him coffee, and Hawke, sleepy after a sleepless night, took him up on it. He leaned on a wall and sipped while Bailey studied the clipping and photo.

"Yeah, that's him, all right," Bailey said, laying the clipping in its plastic sheet protector flat in front of him. "We've got a request out to the village or hamlet or whatever it is of Woodbine in
England
for a police report, and Scotland Yard as well. I want to know just how far this guy had been willing to go when he defrauded little old ladies."