Chosen for Death (5 page)

After Detective Lemieux left, my mother served lunch. It was a generous spread, her usual, and everything looked delicious, but no one had much appetite. The only one who did it justice was Uncle Henry. Dad and Henry used to have eating contests when they were kids. Their mother, my grandma, used to tell us about it when we were little. Once Dad and Henry ate almost an entire turkey between them. The only trouble was that Grandma had cooked it to make turkey salad for a church supper and she wasn't pleased.

I was thinking about what Mom had said and wondering if she blamed herself for Carrie's death because of the fight. It wasn't something I could come right out and ask her, but it was something to watch for. Mom wasn't the type to let others know she was worried. She believed in putting up a good front and keeping her troubles to herself. We were a strange bunch, really. Right up front about opinions, politics, and current events, and very private about feelings.

As soon as I decently could, I said good-bye to everyone, threw my things into a suitcase, and left. Michael was right behind me, though why anyone would be in a hurry to get back to Sonia was a mystery to me. The weather was gloomy, which suited my mood just fine. It was a real nothing sort of day—too warm to be cold and too cold to be warm. Too cloudy to be sunny and too bright to be cloudy. Mid-September isn't a big time for Sunday drivers, those mindless cruisers who can drive you to distraction and folly when you're trying to make time, so the traffic was light. My Saab carried me smoothly along, lulled by its husky throb, at only slightly more than the speed limit, and it was a quick trip up Route 128 from south of the city, where my parents lived, to my condo. Route 128 is the major road that loops around the city. In boom times, back before Massachusetts lost so many jobs, it was aptly called America's Technology Highway. The impressive buildings are still there, crowning the hills along the road, but now a lot of them sport big banners proclaiming space for rent.

I pulled into the lot and past the wide swath of brown bark mulch and blooming chrysanthemums outside my door. I guess it looks neater but I'm no fan of covering the world with bark mulch. I think of it as the browning of America. Still, it was stylistically consistent with the condo complex. My condo is serviceable and impersonal—a civilized form of living out of a suitcase, and it's just minutes off the highway and only a few more minutes from the office. The office is my true home.

The condo smelled stale and musty. I had left in a hurry, and last week's mail and dishes were still piled up on the counter, while several pairs of shoes I'd kicked off lay in front of my favorite chair. A trio of glasses representing my nightly shot of bourbon were stuck to the glass coffee table. My cleaner only came every other week, and this had not been her week. It hadn't been anybody's week. At least, now that I was home, I could lose myself in work. Work was all that kept me sane.

I got a diet soda, sank into the chair, and pressed the message button on my answering machine, kicking off my shoes beside all the others. There were a few condolences from friends, the usual collection of gasps and clicks from people too shy to talk to a machine, a dinner invitation from a guy who wouldn't take no for an answer, a bad joke from David's friend Larry, who worried about my morale—"What do you get when you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole? Hot cross bunnies,"—followed by a long message from my boss, Suzanne, explaining that she'd made a mistake about the date our report was due for Acton Academy.

Suzanne is small and dynamic. A workaholic, like me, but unlike me, she tries to lead a normal, satisfying life. We do consulting for colleges and private schools, focused primarily on identifying and attracting new pools of applicants. I met Suzanne a few years after college. I was wandering blindly about, trying to figure out what to do with degrees in sociology and journalism. I'd tried working for a small-town weekly, getting paid in peanuts, and discovered that it wasn't for me. I couldn't get used to being pushy and intrusive just to report some minor story, even though I liked to write.

Then I'd tried the sociology angle, working for the Department of Social Services, but that didn't suit me either. It took me less than a year to burn out, sick of processing desperate, unhappy people, never getting enough done, and worrying constantly about some serious case falling through the cracks. Salvation came in the form of an ad in the paper for a self-starter who liked people and liked to write.

I answered the ad, liked Suzanne, and quit my job the next day. That was five years ago. Our work styles are very compatible. We're both independent, overachieving workaholics, but we can work well together. And the business is quite successful. There was some friction after I met David. He objected to my working all the time. David liked to play, and I discovered I liked to play with him, so for the two years we were together, I practiced being efficient about work at work and leaving it behind when I went home. David and Suzanne liked each other, and were good-natured about their attempts to get a larger share of my time. When David died, it was a lifesaver for me to have a job I could throw myself into. I've been throwing myself into it ever since.

Suzanne's message, once I got over my shock at having only one week instead of the three I'd expected, offered just the opportunity I needed. I'd planned a leisurely week, starting to work on the report and writing a couple of proposals. A fifty-page report due on Friday meant an eighty-hour work week, and that was if things went well. I wouldn't have time to think about Carrie. My cleaner could worry about the shoes, dishes, and dust, and by Friday I was bound to find another distraction to take me through the weekend.

The messages subsided with a final beep. I picked up the phone and called Suzanne. "Hello?" She sounded sleepy, and it was only seven-thirty.

"It's Thea. I got your message. I'll get started on that report right away. Have we got everything we need?"

Suzanne sighed. "Thea, honey, it's Sunday night. You know, the weekend. Can't you wait 'til morning?" I was about to tease her about losing her competitive edge, but I heard deep male tones in the background, and immediately understood what was going on. Suzanne works too hard for the same reason I do, as a distraction. But she readily admits she'd like to get married and have a family and lead a normal life. Most of the men we meet in our business are married, but she'd found one somewhere.

"Of course," I said. "See you in the morning?"

Before I could hang up, Suzanne said, "Wait. How did things go at home? Are you OK?"

"It was bearable," I said. "Just. Tell you about it tomorrow." I cradled the phone. I changed into some decent pants and a sweater, stuffed a yogurt and diet soda into my briefcase, and grabbed my keys. The phone rang before I got to the door.

"Thea? It's Mom. You got home all right?"

"Sure. Easy driving today. I was just on my way to the office."

Mom sighed. It worries her that I work so hard. "There's something I forgot to ask you, dear, while you were here. I got distracted, with so many people around, and that policeman."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I didn't like him much, I don't know why. There was just something about him."

"Well, Thea, he was just doing his job. He seemed polite enough to me, although of course I would have preferred not to discuss it. It's about Carrie. The thing I wanted to ask you, I mean. I hope you don't mind. Someone has to go up there and clean out her apartment. The rent's paid until the end of the month, but her landlady says it makes her nervous having a dead person's things around." Mom's tones conveyed her disgust with someone so irrational. "If it bothers her so much, I don't know why she won't just pack them up herself and ship them, but she says she won't touch them. So would you mind too much, dear, going up there next weekend and getting her stuff? You could treat it kind of like a minivacation, couldn't you? Camden is very pretty."

I didn't bother to ask her why she didn't do it herself. She wouldn't have called me if she could do it. She wasn't superstitious, like Carrie's landlady, but she had her own reasons for not wanting to touch Carrie's things. Memories. Even if she went, it would take her forever to do it. She'd be inundated with memories every time she touched something.

I should have expected this call. The family persists in believing that I can do anything, that I am the model of calm capability. "Thea will fix it," could be the family motto. It's partly my fault because I don't just say no. I'm flattered that they think I'm capable, but it can be a real nuisance sometimes, since they also don't think my work is important enough to merit any consideration. This was one of those times. I'd wanted a distraction that would get me away from thinking about Carrie, not one that would immerse me in memories.

The last time I'd been called in to fix things was when they wanted me to persuade Carrie to abandon her notion of searching for her birth parents. I'm ashamed to admit that I tried, too, but that was one that even Thea couldn't fix. Carrie was calm, cool, and resolute. She explained her reasons, dismissed our parents' concerns, and gave me the number of someone I could talk to in the search group she had joined. When I reported my failure, my parents weren't surprised. What I didn't report was Carrie's disappointment in me for failing to understand. That was personal, and it opened a chasm between us that we never bridged. Shortly after that, Carrie moved to Maine. I visited her once, uncomfortable about the distance between us. She didn't mention the search, and neither did I, so I assumed she'd given it up.

I'd done it again. Drifted off into my own thoughts. Mom was talking and I hadn't paid any attention. "I'm sorry," I said. "I missed what you just said."

"It's not like you to be inattentive," she said. "You were the same way at the funeral. Are you feeling all right these days?" She didn't wait for a reply. "I expect you're just working too hard, dear. A long weekend in Maine will do you good. Anyway, what I said was that the landlady expects you on Friday, so she can let you in. She must be planning to go away for the weekend or something. You know that we don't have Carrie's keys. Her purse disappeared when she was attacked..."

She rattled on, oblivious to the fact that she'd just added an impossible complication to my life. "Mom, I've got an extremely busy week. I can't go up on Friday. I have to work."

"Oh, just tell Suzanne that you have to have the day off. She'll understand. She works you too hard anyway." Mom is very good at compartmentalizing things. Although on the one hand she persists in assuming I can do anything, she doesn't entirely accept the idea of professional women who manage their own work schedules and meet their responsibilities any way they can. She is like this despite running an impeccable household very competently while also coordinating all the volunteers at the local hospital and working part-time in Dad's office. Besides, it was convenient for her to think Suzanne controlled my schedule. I've given up trying to change her.

"Why don't I go up next week instead?"

"Well, you know, dear, I suggested just that to the landlady, but she was very insistent. Maybe you'll have better luck with her than I did. You're very persuasive. I've got her number right here. Do you have a pencil?" I dug one out of my briefcase and wrote the number on the edge of a magazine.

"Dad and I really appreciate your doing this. You're such a good daughter," Mom said, and hung up before I could argue. Such a patsy was what she really meant. I was halfway down the stairs before I realized I should have suggested she get Michael to do it. Michael, my incredibly talented and lazy brother, lived off his rich girlfriend, dabbled at his art, and had plenty of time on his hands. I'd call him from the office.

Chapter 5

My call to Mrs. Bolduc, Carrie's landlady, was unsuccessful. I felt like I was conversing with a pet-store parrot. No matter what I said, she repeated her standard line, "Come on Friday or I get my husband to throw the things out." She answered none of my questions, including why her husband could throw things out but not pack and ship them, and she managed to imply that Carrie was an immoral slut who deserved what had happened to her.

By the time I hung up, my hatred for Mrs. Bolduc was so intense that it was a good thing I had four days to cool off before I met her. Otherwise there would have been another homicide.

My efforts to pass the job along to Michael were equally unsuccessful. On Sunday his line was busy, and when I finally got through on Monday, his girlfriend Sonia's nasal voice on the answering machine informed me that they were in Bermuda for a few days and would be glad to return my call as soon as they got back. Good old Michael. He sure knew how to deal with grief. I gave up and threw myself into writing the report.