Missing Marlene (19 page)

Jane closed her briefcase with a weary sigh. It had been a difficult day. After the Roger incident, she and Daniel had spoken to each other only when absolutely necessary, and even then their exchanges had been brief. Yet Jane yearned to say more to him and knew he felt the same way.

She had expected him to leave on the dot of five, but when she emerged from her office he was still at his desk, reading a manuscript.

“Well, good night,” she said, smiling, trying to keep her tone normal and pleasant.

He smiled back gratefully. “Good night, Jane.”

Through the window in the back door she could see the trees bending in the wind, and she buttoned her coat and put on her gloves before going out. But though it was windy, it was not especially cold, and the air felt good against her face. She breathed deeply, savoring the peaty autumn smells of fallen leaves and earth.

Her car was the only one in the lot. When she’d arrived at work this morning the lot had been nearly full, and she’d had to park in the back corner. Her shoes clacked hollowly on the pavement as she crossed to the car, half-lost in the shadow of the woods.

She got in and threw her briefcase on the passenger seat. Taking up her purse, she rummaged around for her keys.

Two arms loomed up from behind her, brought something down around her throat, and jerked it tight. She gasped for air but couldn’t draw a breath. Panicking, she grabbed the thing at her neck and felt the rough surface of a rope. It cut into her skin. She reached back to grab whoever held it, but her hands met only air. The rope held tight, and no matter how hard she struggled to grab and loosen it, it was only pulled tighter.

Again and again she tried to draw air, but none could flow through her restricted throat. Her heart beat hard and fast. Strange strobing shapes swam before her eyes.

So this,
she thought,
is what it’s like to die.
But she couldn’t die, not at the hands of this maniac, whoever it was. She had to take care of Nick, whom she loved more dearly than anything else in her world. A great rage blossomed inside her, and with renewed strength she pulled at the rope around her neck.

And then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the rope was removed. Somewhere in the back of her consciousness she heard the slamming of a car door. She slumped against the wheel, gasping in great gulps of cold air. She leaned on the horn, and its blare pierced the night....

“Jane!” Her door was pulled open. She sat up, still breathing hard. Daniel leaned into the car. “What happened?”

“Someone—someone tried to strangle me,” she managed to say, and put a hand to her throat. When she brought her hand away her fingers were red with blood.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get you inside.”

He helped her out of the car, grabbed her briefcase and purse, and walked with her back into the office. She slumped into the chair near his desk and waited while he called the police.

“They’re on their way,” he said, hanging up.

“How—how did you know?” she asked.

“I happened to look out the back window and saw your car still there. I saw you struggling; then I saw the back door open. And then you beeped the horn.”

“Whoever it was changed his mind,” she said. “But why?”

“I can tell you that. Another car pulled into the parking lot. I saw it pass. Whoever it was didn’t stay—he drove on into the next lot—but it was enough to scare your strangler away.”

“Oh, Daniel,” she said in a low voice. “Don’t you see what this means?”

He was at the storage closet, pulling out the first-aid kit. He carried it to his desk, opened it, and found some gauze. “Here, hold this to your neck.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe I should have called the ambulance....”

“Oh no,” she said, waving the idea away. “I’m fine. Just shaken. Daniel,” she repeated,
“do you understand what this means?”

“No, what?” he said, glancing out the front window.

“It means someone thinks I know what happened to Marlene.”

“And do you?”

“That’s just it!” she said, slamming down her fist on her knee in frustration. “I know most of what happened—I’ ve got most of the pieces—but they don’t fit together.”

“So you don’t know.”

“No,” she said, shoulders drooping, “I don’t.” She laughed ruefully. “If I’m going to die, I deserve to know the whole story.”

“Jane, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going to die.”

“Oh, but that’s not necessarily true. Unless I figure out what happened to Marlene...”

There was a knock on the front door. They looked out the window and saw a patrol car at the curb, lights flashing.

Daniel opened the door. A tall man Jane recognized as Detective Greenberg entered. He wore a black coat over his dark suit. With him was a shorter, heavily built man in a blue patrolman’s uniform and a black leather jacket.

“Mrs. Stuart,” Greenberg greeted her, nodding.

“Hello, Detective Greenberg. I’d like you to meet Daniel Willoughby.”

They shook hands.

Greenberg said, “This is Officer Raymond.”

Raymond nodded to Jane and Daniel.

“Now,” Greenberg said, “Mr. Willoughby said you were attacked?”

“Yes, in my car just now. I went out to the parking lot to go home, and as I was about to start the engine, someone hiding in the backseat tried to strangle me with a rope.” She lifted the gauze to show them the bloody mark.

Greenberg winced. “How’d you get free?”

“Whoever it was suddenly stopped. Daniel says another car had driven into the lot.”

Greenberg turned an appraising eye on Daniel. “You saw the car?”

“Yes. And I saw Jane struggling, and then someone jumping out the back door.”

“And going where?”

“Into the woods, I suppose. No one crossed the lot.”

“Did either of you get a look at this person?”

Jane and Daniel both shook their heads.

“You saw nothing, Mrs. Stuart? A hand? An arm? Did you feel anything? Even a sleeve?”

“No. I tried to grab behind me but there was nothing there. I mean, whoever it was must have been leaning back out of my reach. I’ll tell you this: whoever it was was strong.”

Greenberg shook his head. “You’d be surprised, Mrs. Stuart. It doesn’t take as much strength as you’d think to strangle someone. It’s all in the angles.”

“I see. I’ll be sure to tell that to my mystery writers.”

Greenberg gave a small polite smile. “No idea, then, who it could have been?”

“Oh, I know exactly who it was.”

The three men turned sharply to her, waiting.

“Yes?” Greenberg said.

“It has to be the same person who killed my nanny, Marlene. I’m sure she’s dead now. I’ve been asking too many questions.... This person thinks I know his identity.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mrs. Stuart.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because we arrested Marlene Benson’s murderer at two o’clock this afternoon.”

He nodded. “I may as well tell you now. You’ll hear about it soon enough. It’s Vernon List.”

Jane stared at him in shock.

“We did a thorough search of his car. We found a pair of ladies’ panties stuffed under the backseat. We also found something else.”

“Something else?” Daniel said.

Officer Raymond looked down at the floor.

Greenberg said, “A finger.”

“A finger!” Jane cried.

Greenberg nodded. “A woman’s finger. It was in the glove compartment.”

“How horrible,” Jane whispered.

“Yes, it is. But at least now we’ll be able to get to the bottom of what happened to this girl. Eventually we’ll get List to tell us what he did with the body.”

Jane stared at the floor, lost in troubled thought. “Tell me, Detective Greenberg. What made you search Vernon List’s car in the first place?”

Greenberg hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then he said, “We had an anonymous tip. Which raises an important question. Who else knew that List killed Marlene? A very troubling question.”

Jane nodded in agreement, still gazing down at the carpet.

“Mrs. Stuart,” Greenberg said, “I imagine you want to go home and get some rest. Why don’t you come see me tomorrow morning at the station and give a statement. You, too, Mr. Willoughby.”

“All right,” Daniel said. “But I have a question.”

“Yes?” Greenberg looked annoyed.

“If you arrested the person who killed Marlene, then who tried to strangle Jane?”

“Obviously,” Greenberg said, “the attack on Mrs. Stuart was unrelated to Marlene’s murder.”

“Oh,” Daniel said, though he still looked troubled as he showed the two men out. He turned to Jane.

She was shaking her head slowly, still staring at the floor. “Wrong, Daniel, very wrong. They haven’t got it. Haven’t got
him,
I should say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vernon would never have killed Marlene.”

“Jane, what are you saying? He was obsessed with her. She led him on, then dropped him like a piece of garbage. He would have hated her for that. He went into a rage. He killed her, then chopped off her finger as a memento, a trophy of his obsession.”

She gave him a funny look. “I think you’ve been reading too many of Rosemary Davis’s books. No, my dear, I’ve met Mr. List, and I’m telling you he’s not capable of murder.”

“Then who is? Gil Dapero?”

“Maybe. If the rumors about him are true, yes. But maybe not.” She rose laboriously. “Can you give me a ride home? I’m a little shaky.”

“Of course.”

“Where’s your car?”

“In the municipal lot. You know I never park in back.”

“Smart boy.”

She grabbed her briefcase and purse and followed him out the front door. She waited behind him on the sidewalk while he locked up. Then he turned and walked with her across Center Street toward the municipal lot across Packer Road.

“You may want to reconsider going to Silver and Payne,” Jane said, shooting him a mischievous glance. “I’ll bet exciting things like this don’t happen there.”

He looked at her, a deeply pained look in his eyes, and she wished she could take back her words.

“Missus, what is that on your neck!” Florence clutched at her own neck, her eyes wide.

“Oh, just a little blood,” Jane said, cursing herself for forgetting to cover it up.

“But how?”

“I—fell and scraped myself on the corner of my desk.”

Florence looked doubtful. “I’ll get some first-aid cream and bandages.”

“No, no, thank you, Florence. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Where’s Nick?”

“In his room with a boy from school—Aaron. I hope it’s okay. I arranged the play date with his mother, and he stayed for dinner.”

Wonderful Florence. “Mind! I’m delighted. Any dinner left?”

“Plenty, plenty. You sit and I’ll bring you some.”

Gratefully Jane dropped her coat on a chair in the corner of the dining room and sat down at the table. The sounds of Florence preparing Jane’s dinner came from the kitchen.

A woman’s finger ... Jane shivered at the gruesome image. And in the glove compartment! Someone had a sense of humor, albeit a dark one.

Suddenly Winky appeared in the kitchen doorway, a crazed look on her face. Like a shot she raced through the dining room, into the living room, and out into the foyer, where she darted up the stairs, her feet thumping frantically.

Florence came in with Jane’s plate. “The cat does not like Aaron,” she said with a laugh. “We figured out that it’s because Aaron has a dog, and Winky smells it on him.”

“Poor Winky—that’s definitely it,” Jane said, starting in on baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and string beans. “Thank you, Florence. This looks marvelous.”

“My pleasure,” Florence said. “Missus, do you mind if I go upstairs now? The kitchen is clean except for your plate, and I am getting a little tired. Aaron’s mother is coming for him any minute. I’ll get the door when she gets here.”

“That will be fine,” Jane said. “Thanks again.”

Florence left the room. Jane heard her start up the foyer stairs. “Ah!” Florence shrieked, as suddenly there were more frantic footsteps. “You crazy cat, you almost pushed me down the stairs!”

Winky reappeared in the dining room, but this time she leaped straight to the top of the hutch, where she stood precariously among the photographs.

“Winky! You come down from there right now,” Jane commanded.

Winky just stared down at her. Then she began picking her way gingerly around the photographs. Jane got up from her chair. “Winky, you get down from there. You’re going to—”

Before Jane could finish, Winky brushed against one of the photographs, pushing it over the edge. It hit the floor with a crunch of broken glass.

“Oh, damn!” Jane said, and reached angrily for Winky, but she jumped down from the end of the hutch farthest from Jane and scampered into the kitchen.

Jane knelt to pick up the fallen photograph. She turned it over. It was her and Kenneth’s wedding photo. Cracks radiated from the center of the glass like a spiderweb.

“Ohhh,” Jane groaned in irritation. Fortunately, the photo itself appeared undamaged. Jane would buy a new frame for it tomorrow. She propped the frame carefully on the dining room table and returned to her dinner, hoping Aaron’s mother came soon.

Gazing at the picture as she ate, Jane realized she hadn’t looked closely at it in ages. She’d looked good in that dress—she’d give herself that. Really, it had been quite outrageous, tightly formfitting to the knees, where it flared in front and trailed behind in a ridiculously long train.

A train ... She laughed at the idea. How frivolous. How ... young! Yet that had been only ten years ago; she’d been twenty-eight. Not that young. But she’d wanted a wedding with all the trimmings, train and all....

She froze.

She put down her fork and stared at the picture without seeing it.

Yes. It all made sense now. The pieces fit. Yes.

Now she knew everything.