Chosen for Death (25 page)

I almost shouted, I was so excited. I copied the information down in my notebook, imagining Carrie sitting in this same chair, making the same discovery. For a moment, I felt very close to her, planting my inelegant size nine where her little sixes had so recently been. "I'm getting there, Carrie," I whispered. Now all I had to do was find someone named Elizabeth Norwood, probably named something else by now if she was even still alive, somewhere in the state of Maine. First, of course, I had to find Hallowell. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the cracked leather. Things seemed to be happening too fast. Better, I knew, than spending four years like that poor man I'd listened to yesterday, but I needed to pause and get my bearings before I went on. I closed the file and went to find Agnes.

She was sitting in a rocking chair by the kitchen window, knitting, looking so peaceful and content I hated to disturb her. "Agnes," I called softly, "I found it." She set down the knitting and stood up. "Don't get up," I said. "I can find my way out."

"I'm not a feeble old lady yet, dear," she said. She led the way back to the front door, found my coat, and watched as I put it on. She didn't even come up to my shoulder, but she was a forceful presence. "I've been thinking about what you said, Thea, and I'm worried," she said gravely. "I don't see how you help your sister by getting yourself killed. You shouldn't be doing this alone. You say you haven't thought about risks, but if your intuition is right—and I'm a great believer in intuition—there are risks. I thought about volunteering but it isn't practical, even if you could imagine a little old lady as your sidekick, but there must be someone who can help you. What about someone in your family? Your boyfriend?"

I shook my head. "Not really. My family thinks I should forget the whole thing, and I haven't got a boyfriend. The police detective on the case might be helpful, if I could convince him that I know what I'm doing. He's the only one I can think of."

She put a hand on my arm and spoke very seriously. "Then you must promise me you'll try to persuade him to help you. Promise me, Thea." Her concern touched me. I'd only known her a few hours, yet she seemed more concerned about me, and interested in what I was trying to do, than my own family. I promised that I'd get in touch with Andre Lemieux before I tried to contact Carrie's birth mother.

She hugged me. "Be careful, Thea," she said, and pressed something into my hand. I looked down. It was a pocket-sized container of Mace. "A present from my son. He worries about me living here alone. I hope you won't need it, but you never know."

"Thank you, Agnes," I said, "for everything." There were tears in my eyes as I stumbled down the steps. They mingled with the rain that had begun while I was inside. But despite the rain and my tears, I felt a vague excitement. Like a hunting dog that's picked up a scent, I was on the trail that Carrie had been following, and wherever it went, I would follow.

Chapter 20

I dropped my keys on the counter and threw my coat over a chair. It was a relief to be free of it. It looked nice, and I felt sexy in it, but it weighed a ton. I leaned wearily against the wall, wishing I could just slide down onto the floor and go to sleep. The light on my answering machine was blinking frantically, demanding attention. But after a long day walking in Carrie's footsteps, I was wrung out. I didn't even want to listen to anyone, let alone talk to them, even though there is something compelling about the phone. The night was young, but I felt old.

Meeting Agnes and Bill had been bright spots in the gloom. Both of them had been wonderfully helpful and kind, but all the kindness and goodness in the world couldn't change the reason I'd gotten into this search. Carrie was still dead and her killer was still at large. And now there was a new figure in the picture. As I followed Carrie's lead, and learned what she had learned, I was seeing what she had seen—the lonely, suicidal woman who had been her real mother. A burden Carrie had borne in silence. Maybe that was why she'd call me, because she needed to talk about it. But I hadn't returned her calls, so I would never know. I could hear the harsh voice of Esther Pappas, "Tell your sister to give up and get on with her life..." Perhaps if Carrie had taken that advice she'd still be alive. But Carrie's real mother had been an issue all her life. She couldn't have walked away from the search having learned so much and just lived with the specter of that elusive, unhappy woman.

Now that I'd put myself in Carrie's shoes, I couldn't walk away either. I'd started this search because I felt I had to do something tangible to help solve the mystery of her death. I hadn't reckoned on how emotionally draining it was going to be. My head hurt from the crash of the wipers on the rainy drive home, and from the anticipation of the task that lay before me. I hadn't completely recovered from last week's assault, and after the long day, my side hurt and I was bone-tired.

Thank goodness Agnes had fed me. Now that I was home I wasn't going out again, and the cupboards were pretty bare. I was too tired to fix something anyway. I made myself a drink, changed into a cozy velour robe and warm socks, curled up in the chair, and pushed the message button. The first message was some anxious breathing followed by a click. Some machine phobic. The second was David's old friend Larry, who liked to call and leave me jokes. Without preamble he said, "Hey, Thea. Did you hear the one about the agnostic, dyslexic insomniac? He sat up all night wondering if there was a dog." I laughed so hard I inhaled my bourbon and almost missed the next message.

"Hi, Thea. It's Dad. Your car is fixed and you can pick it up anytime. The deductible is two hundred fifty dollars, plus fifty for the towing. You need to call and let them know when you'll pick it up. Erikson Saab in Thomaston. I don't have the number. Hope you're taking it easy. Give us a call."

Silence, followed by a ring, a click, and a new voice. "Thea? It's Andre Lemieux, the state trooper you suspect may not be human. I hate these machines." There was a long silence. "I called to apologize for not believing you. I asked Bob about your blood-alcohol level. You remember Dr. Bob—good medical training, lousy bedside manner? They had tested it, and it was virtually nil. So I took your advice and checked the bottles for prints. Like you said, you never touched them." Another long pause. I could hear him breathing. "So I'm sorry I was such a horse's ass. When are you coming up to get your car and clean out the apartment? Give me a call when you do. Or if you need to be picked up at the airport, or something. I want to see you. Please." A click, then silence.

There was a message from the headmaster of Acton Academy, asking if I could meet with his board on Thursday to go over our report and recommendations. A message from another school, wanting to set up a meeting to discuss a proposal we'd made. Two dinner invitations. A cold call from an agitated broker. And last, but not least, a shrill call from Mrs. Bolduc, wondering when I was coming back to clean out the apartment and reminding me that time was passing.

I turned the machine off, thinking about Andre. It was nice of him to call. Generalizing from my prejudice against the police, I'd judged him too macho to consider an apology. It would be nice to see him again, sometime when I wasn't too busy doing his work for him. I took my glass to the kitchen, switched from bourbon to diet soda, and sprawled on the couch, remote control in hand, giving myself up to the wasteland of television, too tired to think. Don Johnson and company obligingly entertained me with the stubble, sweat, a rain of bullets, and much masculine angst.

Despite the rampant sweat and testosterone on the screen, I fell asleep. The doorbell woke me about an hour later. I stumbled sleepily to the door, puzzled by the intrusion. No one drops in on me on Sunday nights. First of all because I'm usually at the office anyway, but even when I am home, Sunday night is reserved for mending clothes, ironing, doing laundry, conditioning my hair, and watching mindless television. I peered through the spy hole. An attractive brown-haired man was standing there. I had never seen him before. "Who is it?" I called.

"Let us in, Thea," Suzanne said. I looked again. She was standing behind the man, so I hadn't seen her at first. I undid the latch and opened the door.

"Hey," I said, "I thought you were in New Hampshire for the weekend."

"It has been raining," she said. "Didn't you notice? No, you probably didn't. You haven't been in the office all weekend, have you?"

"No," I said, "Detective Kozak has been on the case. Is this Paul?" They both looked glowing and healthy and outrageously happy. I hadn't been hiking since David died. We used to do a lot of it, taking the less traveled trails so we could detour to make love in mossy glades off the beaten path. I recognized their healthy flush. Sex. They'd found their own bed of moss.

Suzanne waved a bottle of champagne. "We wanted you to celebrate with us, Thea. Paul and I are getting married."

I bit back the first three comments that came to mind. I didn't need to point out that he was already married. Suzanne knew that. Nor that he was a bad risk, being caught on the rebound. Instead I hugged her, and kissed Paul. "I'll get some glasses," I said. I went into the kitchen, got the silver champagne cooler and three flutes, filled the cooler with ice, and took it all back into the living room on a tray. I poured a jar of macadamia nuts into a dish, dug out some cheese that wasn't moldy and crackers that weren't stale, and put that out, too. Paul deftly popped the cork without blinding anyone and filled our glasses. I raised my glass. "To happiness," I said. The doorbell rang. I touched my glass to theirs, drank a sip, and set it down. "Be right back."

Once again I peeked through the spy hole. This time I recognized the man on the doorstep. Andre Lemieux. I opened the door and stepped back so he could come in. His quick eyes took in my bathrobe, Suzanne and Paul, and the champagne. It probably made no more sense to him than it did to me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't want to interrupt your party."

"It's not a party," I said. "You remember my friend Suzanne?" He nodded. "She and Paul stopped by to tell me they're engaged. We were just having some champagne. I'll get another glass. Coat closet's over there." I gave him a gentle push. "Go ahead. You're dripping on the floor."

We sat in chairs across from Suzanne and Paul and drank champagne. They looked good together, sitting there on the sofa, Paul big and graying, the lines in his face etched by good humor; Suzanne petite and neat and outrageously happy, with eyes only for him. I was all in favor of happiness, even if I was a bit jealous. The bottle vanished quickly. Suzanne waved the dead soldier at me. "Got any more of this stuff around, Thea?"

There was still a bottle in the refrigerator left over from my dates with Steve, one I'd put there in anticipation of a romantic evening. That was before I discovered that romance wasn't in his vocabulary, at least not in his physical vocabulary. "I do. I'll get it," I said.

Andre followed me to the kitchen. "Are you sure I'm not intruding on something private?" he said.

"No more than they are," I said. "This was a real bolt from the blue. I was asleep. They took me completely by surprise. I didn't know they were this serious." I stripped off the foil and unwound the wire.

He took the bottle out of my hands. "Here, let me do that."

"I'm not helpless, you know, Trooper," I said.

"Andre," he said. "I hear trooper enough when I'm working." He removed the cork, and set the cork and bottle down on the counter. He backed me up against the refrigerator and pinned me there with his body. "I realize that you're not helpless, ma'am, but I sort of wish you were." He gently took my face in both hands and kissed me. Not a sweet, gentlemanly kiss like Bill's, but the kiss of a man with more than just kissing on his mind. "I've been looking forward to that," he said.

"I think that's the first time I've ever kissed a horse's ass," I said.

His inquisitive eyebrows rose. "As long as it's not the last." He picked up the bottle and walked out. Paul and Suzanne were necking on the sofa. They broke apart with embarrassed smiles when we came in. Kissing in the kitchen, necking on the sofa—it could have been a high school party except I never went to those in my bathrobe. We drank the second bottle and made small talk. Andre, it turned out, had come down to pick up Carrie's medical records and interview her doctor. He'd stopped by to see if I needed a ride to Maine to pick up my car.

Maine was the next stop in my search, and I needed to get my car anyway, so I decided to take him up on his offer. "Looks like I'm going to Maine, Suzanne," I said, "so neither one of us will be at work tomorrow."