Cal
MIRIAM
Chalmers looked at me fiercely and said, “I’m calling the police.” She was reaching into her purse, presumably, for a cell phone.
“Okay,” I said evenly.
I was happy for her to call the Promise Falls cops, or Lucy Brighton. Then I could be spared the task of giving her the news about her husband.
Assuming, of course, that the police had
that
right. Lucy had identified his body, after all. I realized now everyone had just assumed the body next to him had been his wife’s.
It was possible, I supposed, that Miriam already knew her husband was dead, that coming into the house and shouting his name was an act. But it didn’t strike me that way. If she really did not know about what had happened at the drive-in, I had to marvel at the fact that Adam Chalmers had found two women—Miriam and Felicia—with an apparent disinterest in current events. In Felicia’s defense, I’d found her much earlier in the day. But it was well into the evening now, nearly twenty-four hours since the drive-in bombing.
My lack of concern about Miriam calling the police seemed to have lessened the urgency on her part to do it. She still had the phone in her hand, poised to make the call, but she had stopped.
“Is Adam here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Where is he? I called here earlier today and left a message, and he hasn’t answered his cell.”
The voice mail I’d heard. It had been from her.
“I don’t think I can carry on this way.”
I was betting that number I’d made note of was her cell.
“You should talk to the police,” I said. “Make the call. But not 911. Call one of their nonemergency lines. Or better yet, I could drive you down to the station.”
She let the phone fall into her bag, then dropped the purse onto the nearest chair. She reached a tentative hand out to the wall. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Who did you say you are?”
“Cal Weaver.” I took out one of my business cards and handed it to her. She barely glanced at it before dropping it onto the chair. “When did you go away?”
“What?”
I nodded in the direction of the overnight bag on the floor. “Have you been out of town?”
“Two days,” Miriam said.
“Where?”
“Lenox.” A small town, just into Massachusetts, where they held the annual Tanglewood music festival. “There’s an inn there I go to when I need some time.”
“Time for what?”
“I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but I’m not answering another question until you tell me where Adam is. Is he okay? Has he had a heart attack?”
You did what you had to do.
“Have a seat,” I told her.
“No.”
“Please. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
She knew it was going to be bad. I could see it in her face. I pulled out a chair at the table for her, sat down close to her on the
corner. My eyes were glancing around, wondering where the alcohol was kept.
“There was an accident last night,” I said. “At the Constellation Drive-in. You know it?”
Miriam nodded.
“The screen toppled. It looks like it was a bomb. The screen fell on some cars, crushed them, including a Jag registered to your husband. He was in the car. The police got in touch with Lucy, told him that her father was dead.”
“No,” she whispered. “There must be a mistake. Why wasn’t I called? Why’s no one been in touch with me?”
“That might be because everyone thought you had died with your husband.”
She let that sink in for a moment.
“There was someone else in the car,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Of course. Who goes to the drive-in alone?” She fixed her eyes on me. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone knows at this point. I don’t know if anyone realizes the mistake that’s been made. Because you’ve been out of town, because you haven’t been here.”
“All Lucy had to do was look in the garage and see my car wasn’t here and . . . the stupid twat. Where is Adam? Where is he . . . where are they keeping him?”
“You should talk to Lucy. Or the coroner’s office. He may have been moved to a funeral home. Paisley and Wraith, for example. They’re the biggest in town.”
Miriam sniffed.
“There are probably people you should call,” I said. “Your brother, for one. Lucy was in touch with him. I think he’s coming here, with the intention of identifying your remains.”
“Good God.”
“Why were you in Lenox?” I asked.
“I needed some time to think. Adam and I have been . . . having a rough patch. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Even if
someone had tried to reach me, I had my phone off most of the time. I didn’t watch the news, didn’t know anything about any of this. Today, I was ready to talk, but I couldn’t get hold of him.”
“You left a message. That you didn’t think you could keep on going this way.”
The tears were coming now. She tried to wipe them away from her cheeks with her fingers. “Purse,” she whispered.
I retrieved it from the front hall, set it on the table, and sat back down. She reached in for some tissue, dabbed her eyes, then went back in and brought out a pack of Winstons and a lighter. She got a cigarette between her fingers, but her hand was shaking too much to light it. I gently took the lighter from her, held it to the end of the cigarette.
She pulled hard on it, held the smoke in her lungs, let it come out her nostrils.
“I think I know who it was,” she said quietly.
“In the car? The woman?”
Miriam’s head went up and down a quarter inch. “Felicia.” Maybe thinking I was going to ask, she added, “His slut of an ex-wife. They kept in touch.”
“No,” I said. “I saw her this morning.”
Miriam’s damp eyes darted about, as though the answer were hidden here in the kitchen. “Then Georgina.”
“Georgina?”
“Blackmore. Georgina Blackmore. Her husband’s a professor at Thackeray. English something or other.”
Another connection between her husband and the college. First Clive Duncomb, now a Professor Blackmore.
“That little bitch,” she said.
“Is the professor a friend of the head of security out there?” I asked. “Clive Duncomb.”
Her eyes flashed for a second, then appraised me in a way they hadn’t up until now.
“Why would you ask about him?”
“You and your husband have entertained him and his wife, here, for dinner. You’re friends.”
Miriam Chalmers eyed me with the same level of suspicion she’d displayed when first finding me in the house.
“Why, exactly, are you here, in my house? You’re not with the police.”
“No, I’m not. I’m private.”
“You’re here at Lucy’s direction?”
“Someone was in the house,” I said, nodding. “Since news broke of the disaster, and it became known your husband was among the victims, someone got in. To get something.” I paused. “From the room downstairs.”
It was as though she’d been Tasered.
“What?”
She pushed back her chair so quickly ashes fell from the end of the Winston and landed on her dress. She got up, taking the cigarette from her mouth and clutching it in her fingers, and headed straight for the stairs.
I followed.
She’d only descended three steps when she caught sight of the bookcase out of its usual position, the secret room exposed.
“Oh my God,” she said. “No, no, no.”
She entered the room, saw the scattered DVD cases on the floor.
“This isn’t happening,” she said.
Miriam spun around, pointed at me. “Where are they? What did you do with those? What is it you want? Is it money? Is that what you want?”
“I don’t have them. But I’m guessing you might know who would.”
Miriam was trying to take it all in.
“Get out,” she said. “Get the fuck out of my house and tell Lucy I can solve my own goddamn problems.”
WHEN
Trevor Duckworth dropped off the Finley Springs Water truck at the end of his shift, he went around to the office to see if the boss was in.
He wasn’t.
“Do you have a number for him?” he asked one of the women in the office. A cell phone number was provided. He entered it straight into his own phone’s contacts list.
But he didn’t call Randall Finley right away. He had to think about whether this was the right thing to do.
It galled him that his father had been right. His dad had said the only reason Finley had hired him was that his father was a detective with the Promise Falls police. Finley wanted Barry Duckworth to feed him things, things about the department, that might help Finley when he went after the mayor’s job.
Trevor’s dad had said no when Finley asked him directly. But now Finley was coming at it another way. He’d had a chat with Trevor a couple of weeks ago, let him know that he was friends with the family of Trevor’s former girlfriend, Trish Vandenburg.
Finley described himself as Trish’s unofficial uncle. She’d told him things. She’d told him about the time Trevor had hit her in the face.
It was an accident.
Didn’t seem like it to Trish, Finley told him. She’d spent three days in her apartment waiting for the bruise to fade before she went outside. Trevor tried to explain that he’d thought Trish was going
to slap him, so he’d brought up his hand to stop her, but ended up backhanding her.
However it might have happened, Finley said, it happened. But the onetime mayor made clear to Trevor that he had done him a favor. Trish had been wondering about whether to report the assault to the police, but Finley had persuaded her it was a bad idea.
But who knew? Finley said. She might change her mind one day. Trevor’s boss wanted the young man to know he’d keep his mistake under wraps as best he could, so long as Trevor was open to the idea of proving his gratitude.
Now Trevor sat in his apartment, phone in hand, thinking that maybe this was his chance to even things up with Finley. A way to show how grateful he was.
He made the call.
“Hello?” Randall Finley said.
“Mr. Finley, it’s Trevor.”
“Hmm?”
“Trevor Duckworth.”
“Hey there, Trevor. How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess. Have you got a second?”
“For you, of course. What can I do ya for?”
Even though he was alone in his apartment, Trevor brought his voice down. “You remember that talk we had the other day?”
“Which talk would that be?” Finley said. Taunting him, Trevor felt. He knew exactly what he was talking about.
“You know. About Trish.”
“Oh, yeah, that talk. Of course.”
“I wanted . . . you said you did me a favor, and in return, you said if I ever heard anything that might be helpful to you, that if I passed it along, then we’d be square. You remember that?”
“I do.”
“Well, I kind of heard something tonight, when I was home. Something that my dad was telling my mom.”
Trevor’s hand was becoming slippery with sweat. He switched the phone to his other hand, put it to his left ear.
“What did you hear?” Finley asked.
“Okay, so you know the chief? Rhonda something?”
“Finderman. Rhonda Finderman.”
“Yeah, that’s it. So, three years ago, she wasn’t the chief. She was a detective, and she was in charge of finding out who killed Olivia Fisher.”
“Awful thing,” Finley said. “Just awful.”
“Yeah. So, I guess no one’s ever been arrested for that. And a couple of weeks ago, there was this other woman who got killed. Rosemary.”
“Rosemary Gaynor.”
“Yeah. My dad was telling my mom that it was the same person who killed both of them.”
“Is that so?” Finley said.
“Yeah. But my dad only just realized that, because he didn’t work the first murder, the Fisher one. But he was telling my mom that if the chief—Finderman?”
“That’s right.”
“He was saying that if Chief Finderman had been paying attention, she would have noticed the similarities between the two cases right away, but she wasn’t, or didn’t, and that kind of slowed my dad down.”
“Well, that’s something,” Finley said.
“But then he said, maybe he was expecting too much. Like,
maybe it was just one of those things that fell through the cracks. I guess the chief wants some doctor to be blamed for both murders, and since this doctor is dead, it kind of closes the book on everything. You get what I’m saying?”
“I do. Trevor, that’s really remarkable. I do appreciate this.”
“You can’t ever say where you heard about this. You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Absolutely.”
“And this squares things up, right? You’re not going to hold that other thing over my head anymore.”
A pause at the other end of the line.
“Mr. Finley.”
“This is a good start, Trevor. A very good start. You keep your ears open and let me know what else you find out.”
“Come on,” Trevor said. “That’s not fair.”
“Anything else your dad has to say about the Fisher and Gaynor murders being done by the same person, you pass that along. If he starts making some progress there, you keep me in the loop. How about that?”
“Jeez, I feel shitty enough about what I told you already. And I’m not home all that much anyway.”
“Maybe it’s time you dropped by to see your parents more often,” Finley said. “Remember, there’s nothing more important than family.”
BARRY
Duckworth knew the name Peter Blackmore. Angus Carlson had mentioned it. He was the man who’d talked to Carlson after the meeting with Clive Duncomb at Thackeray.
Blackmore had said his wife was missing.
Seemed as though she might have been found.
As Duckworth reached out to stop Martin Kilmer from entering the examination room to identify the body of the woman they had all, up to now, believed was his sister, Miriam Chalmers, the man’s cell rang.
Duckworth was putting his own phone away as Martin reached into his jacket for his. As he glanced at the number, his eyes went wide. He put the phone to his ear and said, “Miriam? Jesus! Miriam!”
Duckworth held his breath.
Kilmer said, “Where are you? They told me—Jesus, what’s happened?” He shot a contemptuous look at Duckworth. “So you’re not dead? You realize how far I had to drive to find that out? I had a critical meeting today that I had to blow off. Yes, yes, of course, terrible thing about Adam. I’m going to have to turn around and head straight back. I swear, these idiot police were about to have me identify you. Let me know when the funeral is and I’ll see if I can move some things around. Yes, yes, okay. Good-bye.”
He put the phone away.
“Is the entire department incompetent, or just you?” he said.
“That was your sister,” Duckworth said. “You’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. Goddamn it, I drove all the way up here for nothing.”
“Your brother-in-law’s still dead,” Duckworth said. “Just so the trip wasn’t a total waste.”
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s Jimmy Hoffa. You might want to get your facts straight next time before you start sending people into a panic. How the hell do I get back to my car?”
“I’ll take you.”
“You sure you know the way?” Kilmer asked.
“Just give me one second.”
Duckworth entered the room, on his own, to take a look at the body. “Let me see her,” he said to the attendant.
She pulled back the sheet.
If this was, in fact, Peter Blackmore’s wife, he was going to have a difficult time identifying her from her face. There was little left of it. The trauma hadn’t ended there. The woman’s left shoulder and upper arm were crushed. There were several gashes across her upper torso.
Her lower abdomen, right side, was spared any damage from the accident. Duckworth noticed three small moles, clustered within an inch of one another, that formed a rough triangle.
He took out his phone, leaned in close, and took a photo.
“That’s all,” he said to the woman. “Thank you.”
• • •
He endured more complaining from Martin Kilmer before driving him back to the Promise Falls police station, where the man had left his car. Then Duckworth went searching for Garth, in the police garage, to retrieve the purse and phone that ostensibly belonged to Georgina Blackmore. He looked at the woman’s license for a home address.
On the way, he put in a call to Angus Carlson’s cell. The phone rang several times before it went to message. “It’s Duckworth. Call me when you get this. It’s about that professor who said his wife was missing.”
He was putting the phone back into his jacket, still had it in his hand, when it rang. He brought it back out, put it to his ear.
“Duckworth.”
“It’s Carlson. Sorry. I just saw you called. Haven’t listened to the message. I was kind of in the middle of something.”
“Blackmore. He talked about his wife.”
“Yeah. Did he come in, make an official report?”
“No, but I wanted to ask you if there was anything more to that. Anything else he might have said you didn’t tell me.”
“Not really. Like I said, at first he was concerned—then he said it was probably nothing, she’d show up sooner or later. Why, what’s going on?”
“I’ll get back to you if I need anything else,” Duckworth said, and ended the call.
Before leaving the office, he made one other call, to the manager of the hotel in Boston where Bill Gaynor had been attending a conference when his wife was murdered. From his previous discussion with the manager, Duckworth had learned Gaynor’s car had not left the hotel parking garage at all during his stay. Also, he’d been seen in the hotel throughout the weekend. The detective was wondering whether there were any holes that could be punched into Gaynor’s alibi.
“Front desk.”
“Sandra Bottsford, please.”
“I’m afraid she’s not here right now. Can I have her call you?”
Duckworth left his name and cell phone number. “She’ll know what it’s about.”
Then he set off for Peter Blackmore’s house.
It was a two-story redbrick Victorian in the old part of town. There were lights on behind the curtained windows, and what looked like the bluish light from a television.
Duckworth parked at the curb, got out of the car, taking the purse Garth had retrieved from the trunk of Adam Chalmers’s crushed Jaguar, which he had tucked into a plastic grocery bag, and headed for the front door.