Chosen for Death (11 page)

"Of course we did." He sounded discouraged. Fatigue had replaced his stiffness. He no longer looked like he was about to jump to attention. He slumped in his chair, staring blankly at his empty cup. The light shining down on him deepened the lines in his face, making him look older and weary. "We didn't find anything personal," he said. "No diary, no notes, no letters."

But Carrie didn't throw personal things away. Since she had no past, her present was doubly important. She guarded it carefully. "What about in her purse?"

He shook his head. "We haven't found her purse. And there were no papers in the car, except a little slip of paper from a library, the kind you write down the call numbers of books on, stuck down between the seats. Some sort of list." He tried to recall it. "First there was a letter. Just 'C.' Then 'certificate, papers, park trail,' and the word 'mother.' 'Mother' was underlined."

"What does it mean?" I said. He just shrugged. "But, Andre, Carrie kept everything. All her cards and letters, and she always kept a diary. They must be somewhere." And suddenly I wasn't sleepy at all, realizing what must have happened to Carrie's papers. Whoever killed her had taken the papers. "He must have come here. Did you check for fingerprints?" My mind, so sluggish all evening, was racing. "What about Mrs. Bolduc? Did she see anything? I know she keeps an eye on the place. An eye—ha! Two eyes and a nose. I've seen her looking out the window. If she does it to me, she must have done it to Carrie. She must have seen something. On the phone, she implied that Carrie was a slut..." I couldn't stop. A whole host of suggestions and ideas came tumbling out.

Lemieux's mouth twitched. I watched him struggle to keep his face blank. He lost the fight. The twitch became an amused grin. "Did you call me Andre?" he asked.

"I guess I did. I won't do it again," I said.

"You can call me Andre if you want. I'd like that. Andre, not Andy. No one who knows me calls me Andy."

He seemed pleased that I'd called him Andre. Too pleased. And I didn't know why I'd done it. It could only lead to trouble, and I was allergic to trouble. Besides, I had enough trouble already. I was noticing too much about him—how tired he was, his five o'clock shadow. Elfin eyebrows. Bristly military hair. Broad shoulders. The richness of his voice. And an electric shock that made me tremble. The trouble with getting all stirred up is how easily one intense feeling, like anger, can transform into another, like passion, especially when you're sitting around late at night with an attractive man and you've had a few drinks. But I'd sworn off passion. It was time I put a safe distance between us. Distance and a locked door. Just as soon as he reassured me that some murderer wouldn't be coming in. We could talk again tomorrow, in daylight. In a public place. "But if someone has her keys, couldn't they come back? Is it safe for me to stay here?"

"I think whoever it was took everything they wanted the first time. And anyway, Mrs. Bolduc had the lock changed as soon as she found out your sister's keys were missing."

I stood up, glad the coffee table was still between us. "I'm sorry," I said. "I've got to get some sleep. I'm just too tired."

"I'd love to join you," he said. There was a husky catch in his voice, almost a growl, that roused something deep in my numb, weary body. For a fleeting second I wanted to say yes. But only for a second. We'd reached an understanding and I'd agreed to cooperate but that didn't mean he hadn't hurt me. I crossed my arms defensively.

"I prefer to sleep alone," I said, knowing I was sounding prim again.

"That," he said, "is a tragedy." But he dropped the subject. "May I call you tomorrow if I have more questions?"

"I'll be here."

"I could come back and do the dishes," he suggested.

"You did the cooking. I believe in a fair division of labor."

He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I give up. This girl is strictly business, right?"

"Right."

I walked him to the door so I could lock it after him. He hesitated on the threshold, then held out his hand. "Thanks for a nice evening, Thea," he said. I took it gingerly. The electricity almost made my hair stand up. I shut the door quickly and fastened the dead bolt. The rush of energy I'd had subsided as rapidly as it came. I put the dishes in to soak and went up the stairs. They seemed very steep.

I fell across the bed, not bothering to undress, and was asleep in an instant, but an hour later I was awakened by some noises outside. Maybe the lock had been changed, but I still didn't feel safe. I went downstairs, wedged chairs under the front and back doors, and went back to bed.

Chapter 8

No one tried to break in during the night. But, except for that first hour when I'd slept like a log, I slept badly. In the morning, feeling like something the cat dragged in, I crawled downstairs, reheated a cup of last night's coffee, and drank it while I did the dishes. Then I went out to the car and brought in boxes so I could pack Carrie's things. It was sunny, and the sky above Mount Battle was a brilliant blue. Just up the street was a trail leading to the top. I planned to climb it later, if the weather held, and make at least a bit of the weekend a vacation.

I started in the bedroom, putting a couple of boxes together. I set them on the bed and began taking the things out of her closet. Her clothes were ridiculously small. The dresses would have been obscene minis on me. I couldn't have gotten her jeans to my knees. All the clothes smelled like Carrie. Despite my resolution to be cool and matter-of-fact, I went through ten tissues emptying the closet. The apartment was suffused with memories. Carrie's presence was everywhere.

When I wasn't dissolved in tears, either from the scent of her ever-present Chantilly or from remembering her in a particular garment, my mind was racing. Yesterday's encounter with Detective Lemieux had had a strange effect on me. Before coming up here, I'd been content to let the police search for Carrie's killer. Now I wanted a more active role in that search. It was my nightmarish dream which triggered things. The vision of poor battered Carrie, standing there asking for my help.

What was driving me was guilt, my feeling that I'd neglected Carrie. Wrapped up in my own sorrow, I'd abandoned her when she needed me, when she'd needed an ally in the family who understood her drive to find out who she was. Instead I'd tried to talk her out of it. No wonder she hadn't stayed in touch. From the time she was tiny, I'd been like a second mother to Carrie.

It was me, Teea, as she'd called me, she'd come to for Band-Aids, hugs, and help. Her little face would be pressed against the glass beside the front door, watching for me to come home from school. I taught her to ride a bike, told her the facts of life, went with her to buy her first bra and high heels. Mom never showed it, but she must have resented her determined little daughter's rejection every time Carrie seized my arm and insisted, "I want Thea to help me." Perhaps not. Maybe she was grateful to have confrontation averted.

During her funeral, and again yesterday in my dream, I had felt Carrie asking me for help. I wasn't some wacko who believed in the occult or in visitors from beyond the grave. It wasn't some ghost calling to me, it was what remained now that she was gone. My connection to Carrie. My understanding, my love. My obligation to see that things were set right. I had no basis for it other than the note that Lemieux had mentioned, but my intuition told me that despite the nature of the attack, her death was somehow connected to the search for her birth parents. The missing papers could cut either way, of course—boyfriend or relative who didn't want to be found. Lemieux could track down boyfriends and perverts; tracking down Carrie's birth parents was a way that I could be involved.

Andre Lemieux had had another effect on me as well. I wanted to sleep with him. Something nice girls never admit, but I admitted. I wanted to make love with that inscrutable, fiercely controlled trooper who hid a secret human being inside, and I was scared stiff by my feelings. I'd only been involved with one man since David, and it had been a complete disaster. We'd met through a mutual friend who thought we'd be perfect for each other. Once I got to know him, I wondered how she must perceive me, to think I'd get along with such an asshole, but at first I'd thought she was right.

Steve was a banker. He made bright, witty conversation, played a mean game of tennis, and had impeccable manners. He pursued me with flowers and small romantic presents. He was no David. His touch didn't make me tremble, and I didn't feel like he'd ever be my best friend, but we had some fun together. The only problem was that he couldn't wait to get me into bed, and I wanted to take things slowly. He reminded me of a high school boy trying to score so he'd have something to tell his friends. While our dates weren't wrestling matches, they were battles of will, and it got harder and harder to handle his advances.

One night we shared a bottle of vintage champagne to celebrate my birthday, and when he began making his moves, I didn't say no. Partly, I admit, I slept with him because I needed sex. Sexually I'm conservative and careful, but I like sex, and I'd missed it. Steve was not the answer to a maiden's prayers. He was a classic wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am lover. He attended to his own needs, rolled off, and fell asleep, leaving me lying there in the dark feeling cheated. And because I'm Thea of "Thea will fix it" fame, I decided I had to teach Steve something about loving a woman. I started by waking him up, and I gently told him about my own unmet needs. He turned out to be a grouch when awakened. Accused me of being some sort of nympho and went back to sleep.

I must have been a slow learner, because I didn't give up. Three more times I slept with Steve. The total foreplay for all four times couldn't have been more than ten minutes. I never got close to orgasm, and I didn't get much closer to a conversation about the situation. Steve didn't believe he had a problem, but he sure thought I did.

I decided I'd be better off without Steve and his problem. I started being too busy working to see him, and eventually he moved on to another woman less demanding than I. He married her, and now they're expecting a baby. I see them sometimes through the mutual friend. He still hasn't learned anything about pleasing a woman. I can tell by the way his wife squirms on her chair.

The last thing out of the closet was Carrie's shiny black raincoat. I slipped it off the hanger and folded it in half. When I did, something rustled. I unfolded it and checked the pockets. In one I found a white envelope stuffed with papers. The return address was the Town Clerk's Office, Hallowell, Maine. It had been sent to Carrie at this address. I pulled out the papers and spread them on the bed. They were notes of some kind, in Carrie's handwriting, but they didn't make any sense to me. The only thing that did make sense was her heading. At the top of the page she had printed: BIRTH MOTHER SEARCH. So she hadn't stopped searching when she came up here.

I stuck the papers in my pocket and started on the bureau. Whatever her killer had been looking for here in the apartment, it hadn't been money. Her jewelry, some traveler's checks, and the two hundred-dollar bills Dad always insisted she keep were still in her drawer under the sweaters. Looking at her jewelry turned on the faucet again. My family likes to give jewelry for significant occasions, especially antique jewelry. In her jewelry case she had the pair of enameled gold bracelets she'd gotten for graduation, Aunt Sylvia's gold earrings, the Art Nouveau locket I'd given her for her eighteenth birthday, her sweet-sixteen pearls. I shut the box with a snap and set it on the bureau. I couldn't bear to look at those things.

I managed to clean out the linen closet without any tears. I don't get sentimental about sheets and towels. Not usually. After David died, I didn't wash the sheets for two months, because they still smelled like him, and I kept all his dirty clothes for the same reason. Suzanne finally washed them when she came to nurse me through a bout of flu. I cried and carried on like an infant. But I was sick, and sad, and she didn't hold it against me. I still have one of his shirts, unwashed, that I sleep in sometimes. After two years, it still smells faintly of him.

I moved to the bathroom, sweeping everything from the medicine cabinet into a big plastic bag. I rolled up the bag, stuck it in one of the boxes, and lugged the boxes downstairs.

By noon I was starving. There wasn't anything in the house I wanted to eat, and it was time for a break anyway. A walk downtown to get myself some lunch might clear my head. I laced up my spiffy new cross trainers. I often joke that my idea of cross training is walking briskly to the table and rhythmically raising and lowering a fork. It's not quite true. I march off to aerobics at the end of the day like all the nine-to-fivers and pound off the extra flesh.