A House by the Side of the Road (31 page)

“Very nice,” said Christine.

Meg held out the gardening catalog and pointed to the blooms displayed on page 32. “See any difference?”

Christine peered at the picture, at the garden, back at the picture. “Should I? I don't.”

“Neither do I,” said Meg. “Because they're the same flower. It's called Tahiti.”

“And?”

“And it's supposed to be By George.”

“Which means that…?”

“I don't know,” said Meg. “But it's peculiar.”

Twenty-two

Barbara Stanley's tone was brisk and businesslike. “A car that resembles Angie Morrison's has been found in the city,” she said. “But it may not be hers.”

“Where?” asked Meg. A break! She'd be happy to have something constructive to do, some streets to walk up and down knocking on doors, asking neighbors—who would surely have noticed someone who looked like Angie—where she lived.

“Behind a deserted factory. Stripped. Must have been stolen, but no report's been filed.”

“I think she was going on a long vacation,” said Meg. “Maybe she doesn't know yet that it's gone.”

“Nice surprise,” said the policewoman. “I asked them to let me know when a report does get filed. I'll call you when I hear.”

“Thanks,” said Meg, trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt. “Did you get anything else? Like, does grand theft auto bring out the fingerprinting team?”

“It depends,” said Officer Stanley. “Not early on a Sunday morning. Not unless there's a body in it.”

*   *   *

The garbage bags were where she'd left them next to the toolshed. Meg carried them into the house and dumped them out on the kitchen floor. There might be something she hadn't noticed. After all, when she'd looked through these discarded possessions before, she hadn't been trying to find their owner. She knelt by the heap, sifting, looking and discarding, pushing things away until all that was left in front of her was paper. Postcards were unlikely to help; she ignored them for the time being. She gathered the letters. Three had envelopes; most did not. As she had recalled, none of the three had a return address.

She opened the first envelope. The letter inside was an angry response to a break-up. Near the end, it became more pleading than angry—the type of letter one would keep, at least for a while, to counterbalance moments of insecurity. Still, Angie was unlikely to have recently contacted a man she had, years ago, rejected—cruelly and without cause, if the letter was to be believed—even if Meg could find him.

The other two envelopes were both addressed in the same hand. Meg pulled out the contents. One was a birthday card, one a letter. Angie, it appeared, had a mother. Not, Meg thought, an endearing mother, but at least one who occasionally wrote. A mother was more promising than a thrown-over boyfriend. She sat on the floor, reread the letter, gazed at each envelope. Nothing but Angie's name and address, a cancelled stamp, and … a postmark.

Standing at the kitchen window and tilting the envelopes just right, she could make out the faded ink. They had both been mailed from Sinclair, Oklahoma.

Please still live there! thought Meg. Please! And then, when she had gotten a number from Directory Assistance: Please be at home!

Mrs. Morrison was at home but in no hurry to give Meg any information. “Who did you say you are?” she asked, her voice suspicious.

“Meg Kessinger,” said Meg. “I live in the house Angie used to live in, in Pennsylvania.”

“What house Angie used to live in?”

Meg tried to maintain a cheerful tone. “The house in Harrison, where Angie was for a while. I live in it now. She moved out, and I moved in, but she left something that I want to send to her. Only, like I said, I don't know where she moved.”

“What did she leave?” Suspicion was replaced by a glimmer of interest.

Meg gritted her teeth. “Well,” she said brightly, “a really lovely bracelet and the pretty little velvet box it's in. It was tucked at the back of a drawer, and she must have missed it while she was packing.” The bracelet story was proving quite useful.

“Valuable?”

Why else would it have come in a velvet box? thought Meg. “Gosh, I
think
so! I'm sure she'd want it. If I just had her address, I could send it to her right away. Or even her phone number. Then I could call her, see, and—”

“You better just send it here.”

Yeah, right, thought Meg. “Oh! You mean she's there? Great! Could I talk to her?”

“No, she's not here. But she'll show up sometime. When she wants something.”

“But where is she, Mrs. Morrison? Where is she now?”

Mrs. Morrison didn't know. Michelle had been bothering her for weeks about it. Michelle thought there was something fishy going on, but that was just plain silly, because Angie was terrible about keeping in touch with the folks at home.

“Who's Michelle?” asked Meg.

“My other daughter,” said Angie's mother. “In Tulsa.”

Meg had to promise to send the bracelet to Mrs. Morrison if Michelle didn't know where Angie was—which of course, she wouldn't, or why would she have been carrying on about it?—before she got a telephone number.

Michelle wasn't home. Her yawning husband was annoyed, both about being awakened and about the fact that his wife was at the store. She returned Meg's call, collect, a half hour later.

“No, I don't know
where
she is!” said Michelle. She sounded harried but, at least, was not dismissive. “She was supposed to call me from Boston, because…” She lowered her voice. “Because I was going to try to get out to Atlantic City this summer.” There was the sound of water being turned on. “But she never called. I'm about worried sick, and—
I'm doing it as fast as I can, damn it!
—she was all excited about moving the last time I talked to her. But Boston Information doesn't have a number, and I don't know any of her friends where you are. I was hoping you were one of them, when Wayne told me to call Harrison.”

“Sure,” said Meg. “I can see why you'd be frustrated. But she's probably just busy. Moving is
such
a hassle. Anyway, I'll see what I can find out, and if I find a number for her or an address or something, I'll let you know, okay? And will you do the same?”

Michelle promised and hung up, and Meg sat looking at the phone for several minutes. Then she picked it up and called Christine.

“At church,” said Dan. “Late service. I begged off, but she took Janie to the bus, and then she and Teddy were going to church. You want her to call? It'll be a while.”

“The minute she walks in,” said Meg. “The minute. Okay?”

*   *   *

Attached to Meg with her dog's sturdy leash, Harding was doing well, really too well, his right shoulder often bumping her thigh. She decided to work on sharp left turns. Running into him a few times would remind him to keep a slight distance and be prepared for shifts in direction. She turned off the path onto the grass and collided with the dog, who stumbled and glanced up at her in surprise. Two right turns were no challenge for him; he did not exhaust the slight play in the leash in the instant it took him to adjust. Another sharp left—he did better at it—and they were back on the path.

Working with Harding was the only thing Meg could think of to do. She needed to be busy, needed a simple task that would engage her physically but leave her mind free to go over its obsessive and cyclical thoughts.

Christine wouldn't be home until well after noon. Meg had filled the first ten minutes of her impatient wait by calling nurseries. Two had been too busy to answer detailed questions on the phone, but the last had been staffed by a harried man who seemed glad for the relative relaxation provided by a phone call and who responded with enthusiasm to questions about spring bulbs.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “That one's brand-new.” He knew all about it and confirmed what she had thought.

She halted abruptly. Harding stopped with her, lowering his haunches to the ground and holding the “sit” position. “Good dog!” said Meg, dropping her left hand to rest on the top of his head. His tail wagged across the ground.

She put her hand, spread out and flat, a few inches in front of his nose. Would he obey the hand signal without the verbal? She moved away. He looked doubtful, began to rise. “No! Sit!” She repeated the hand signal for “stay” and again moved away. This time he held his position, looking interestedly at her. She dropped the leash and jumped up and down, spun in a circle and waved her arms. He'd been through this before and wasn't fooled. He didn't move, except to open his mouth and let his tongue loll from the side.

“Harding! Come!” she said. He moved eagerly to her and sat again, facing her. “Good dog!” She dropped to her knees and hugged him.

“Just a little more practice, you beautiful guy,” she said. “You can win Janie that ribbon, can't you?”

Harding heeled perfectly the rest of the way to the creek and twice obeyed the hand signal for “stay.” Meg unhooked the lead, and he bounded out into the water, splashing about, his tail wagging vigorously.

She sat on the ground, listening to birds nearby and her own dog barking in the distance, and watched Harding frolic. What was she going to do? She knew, now, not only how Hannah Ehrlich had died and why, but also at whose hands, but she couldn't prove it. The logic that told her what had happened was merely that—logic.

The method was perfect: simple and evidence-free. Mrs. Ehrlich's body could be exhumed and autopsied, but it would reveal nothing. The only drugs it would contain would be those that were prescribed for her. There were no forged prescription blanks. There were no missing drugs. There was no evidence.

Harding emerged from the creek and found an interesting place to dig, both front paws scrabbling wildly at the dirt. Within a moment, a chipmunk's bold descent from a nearby tree distracted him, and he lunged after it. The chipmunk had a change in plans and retreated. Frustrated, the dog circled the tree, then bounded back toward Meg and attempted to sit in her lap.

“Just wet would be one thing,” she said, shoving him away, “but you are
muddy.
”

He sat down facing her, his eyes merry.

“Yeah, you're a good dog,” she said, holding his head and touching his forehead with her own. She straightened and scratched under his chin. “And at least you're not tracking all that into the kitchen like some dog I could mention.”

Her dog, having been abandoned to allow Harding to concentrate on his work, was probably trying to dig her way out of the front yard at this very moment. If so, she would be filthy. With a dog, it was just as well that the kitchen had an easy-to-clean floor. The bare, worn sections of wood that the linoleum covered would have soaked up anything that spilled or got tracked in …

Meg's back went rigid, and her hand, clenched into a fist, slammed against the ground. The stains under the neatly tiled floor. Why hadn't she put them together with the stains behind the cabinet? How could she have been so slow?

Harding ran barking up the path. Meg jumped and whirled. Christine was being greeted with wild enthusiasm by the big yellow dog. She pushed past him, not urgently, and hurried toward Meg.

“What?” she asked.

“I'm so glad it's you,” said Meg, panting a little. “Gosh, you scared me. I thought you were at church.”

“The bus was late, so we were late, so we came home instead. I called right away, like Dan said, but you weren't home. I got scared and changed clothes and came over. If you'd let me
drive
over, I'd have been here sooner. What is it?”

She leaned against a tree, while Meg sank back down on the ground. “They found Angie's car, and then I found Angie's sister. Listen.” Meg explained.

Christine slid down the tree and Harding tried to climb onto her lap. “Does that all sound to you like it does to me?”

Meg nodded. “And I should have figured it out days ago. She
is
dead. And she died right here, in my kitchen.”

Christine listened, her blue eyes narrowing, as Meg told her about the floor. “He didn't realize that blood had dripped behind the counter. He did know the stain on the floor was a problem, but he didn't have time to get it out. So he covered it up. That's probably one of the reasons he tried to burn down the house. Christine…”

The muscles in Meg's legs were jumping under the skin. She made a determined effort to relax. “Christine,” she said again, “that means the man who watched my house, who knew when I was gone, who had a way to get in whenever he wanted … has already killed two people. Maybe he's been in the house lately. Maybe he's seen my notes about arrhythmia and Norpace capsules. Maybe he's noticed that some of the floor tiles aren't stuck down so tight anymore. Maybe…”

Harding stood up, his ears pricked.

The blood had drained from Christine's face, and her voice was gruff and unnatural. “But who is
‘he'?
”

“Don't say anything.” Meg's voice was low and she looked at the creek instead of at her friend. “Somebody's coming. Can you crawl from that side of the tree back behind those bushes ahead of you?
Don't say anything.
”

Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Christine nod.

“Then do it. Now!”

Meg stood up. “Harding! Come!” she said. The dog, who had started up the path, wheeled and returned, and Meg told him how good he was as she affixed the leash to his collar. She turned and started up the path. She stopped, a look of pleased surprise on her face. Jack, ten yards away, adjusted the knapsack he was carrying over his left shoulder and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Jack! Hey!” she said. “How nice! Did you bring the painting?”