Learning to Swim (35 page)

From my futon I called and talked to Paul, and then Philippe. We chatted about Paul, Elise, the weather, about anything but what I was doing in Burlington. The computer firm had set up office-wide backup and security, he said, and the accounting firm had turned up a steady flow of discrepancies, with figures altered to show more expenses than had actually occurred. Someone in his office had been skimming.

My vote would have been on Claude, but it would be stupid of him to bite the hand that fed him. Claude, I suspected, was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

Riding to the ferry the next morning in the brisk air felt good, and on the way I stopped at a bakery and got a selection of fresh pastries. I bought another round-trip ticket and boarded, double-checking the ship’s name.

Jimmy must have pointed me out, because Dwight came to find me about ten minutes into the trip. He was a big guy, older than Jimmy and his red-haired friend, with scruffy brown hair that stuck up, a thick neck, and scars from what looked like a bad case of acne. Jimmy had given him the by-now dog-eared picture. He gestured toward the faces. “Yeah, I remember these guys. They had a van, an older Plymouth Grand Voyager, maybe a ninety-six or ninety-seven. Sort of a dark green.”

Hope rose in me, tightened my throat. I’d never expected someone
to have remembered this much.
Could it be this easy?
How could the police have missed this?

He grinned. “Doesn’t look like much up here,” he said, pointing to his head, “but I remember faces and I remember cars. I thought maybe they didn’t know much English, because the driver seemed confused when I told him where to put his car.”

“Do you remember the license or anything else about the van?”

“Nah, pretty ordinary looking. A Vermont plate, I think, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

I could barely get out my next question. “Did you see a child with them, a little boy?”

He shook his head. “Nope. But you couldn’t see in the back of the van. They could have had half a dozen kids in there.”

“You didn’t see which direction they drove when they got off the ferry?”

Another head shake. “Nope, once they’re off, I don’t look.”

“Did the police show you this picture?”

“Nope. They probably only talked to the bosses. Or maybe asked on a day when I wasn’t here. I had a few weeks off a while back, when my sister was sick.”

“Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.” I handed him the bag of pastries. “I thought you might like these.”

He peered inside and sniffed. “Hey, great, the guys will love these. But don’t you want one?”

I reached in and took one without looking. “Thanks, Dwight.”

“No problemo!” He took off, bag in hand.

I looked down. I’d pulled out a chocolate-filled croissant. A good omen.

I’d finally found something.

The last thing I wanted to do now was go to a dinner party, but I’d promised. It didn’t take long to shower and change, and Thomas had already walked Tiger. I was neglecting her, but she was happier than if I had left her in Lake Placid. And I needed her, especially at night.

I put on a colorful silk shirt Kate had talked me into buying last summer and the cord slacks again. I was going to have to break down and buy another decent pair of pants.

We found the house easily, an imposing brick three-story with large white columns in front. We were shown into an ornate entry-way, near an elaborate curving staircase. Thibault was well-off for a university professor, even a department head. Family money, I supposed, his or hers.

We’d arrived what I thought was early, but we weren’t the first ones there. A couple in their late thirties, dark and slender, was ingratiating themselves with their hostess, and greeted us perfunctorily, which suited me fine, because even from across the room I didn’t like them. I’m beginning to learn to trust first impressions. I sipped the oaky red wine Marguerite had delivered into my hands, and Thomas went off to greet Vince.

“Your house is gorgeous,” the woman gushed to Marguerite. “I adore your color scheme.”

Gack
. Burlington high society, I suppose, or the edges of it. I walked around. The rooms were decorated in golds and whites, with furnishings to match. Not my taste, but striking. My eyes were drawn to a huge photo on one wall, an artful shot of an attractive boy and girl with shiny brown hair and bright faces, holding tennis racquets and wearing immaculate tennis whites.

“That’s nice, isn’t it,” Marguerite said, noticing me looking at it. “The twins had just turned eleven.” She started to say something else, but as the doorbell chimed she excused herself.

The other two couples were more congenial than the first, but all the women wore dresses and heels. Their definition of casual was clearly very different from mine.

Marguerite came over to me. “How absolutely lovely your hair is,” she said, almost touching it.

“Thank you,” I said brightly, making myself not move away. If I don’t tie my hair back, it automatically springs into curls. I never do much with it, and don’t own a hair dryer. Although I’ve discovered
that when you go out in an Adirondack winter with wet hair it freezes into brittle little sticks, which probably isn’t particularly good for it.

The food was excellent: lamb and vegetables in a cream sauce, served with fluffy hot rolls. Vince told amusing stories about his escapades as a child in England, where his father had been a French attaché. Marguerite was his perfect counterpoint, feeding him lines and laughing at just the right moment. It seemed a routine they’d perfected years ago. I made a comment or two, but mostly just watched and listened. Thomas was clearly enjoying himself.

The first couple, who I’d gathered were both bankers, excused themselves before dessert. “We’re terribly sorry, but our sitter just couldn’t stay any longer, and we couldn’t find anyone else,” the woman said. “You know how difficult it is to get good sitters these days.” Marguerite made commiserating noises and went to show them out.

“Speaking of children, how are Ryan and Rebecca?” asked a jovial red-haired man, who owned a real estate firm.

“Oh, they’re doing marvelously,” Thibault said, waving his arm. “They’re spending the summer with their grandparents in France, and working on their French accents.”

“They attend school in Connecticut, don’t they?” Thomas asked.

Thibault chuckled. “Yes, the twins long ago decided that they wouldn’t be caught dead in high school here. They’re in their second year now and doing wonderfully. Becca’s decided to be a doctor and Ryan still wants to be a photographer.”

Dessert was chocolate mousse, served with coffee in thin china. I prefer my chocolate not so airy, but it at least was chocolate. Afterward we retired to the living room for after-dinner drinks, which seems an odd practice, considering that most people drive themselves home. I wasn’t driving, but didn’t care for liquor, so I sipped more wine. I let myself relax, and for the moment forget about kidnappers not found. I sat next to the wife of the real estate man, a sturdily built woman with a blond pageboy and a hearty laugh, who asked intelligent questions about writing. Marguerite was showing Thomas a painting behind
one of the sofas, listening to him avidly. Vince was telling another funny story, and I gave it half my attention. After he finished and the laughter died away, Thomas caught my eye.

“We should get going,” he said. The other couples simultaneously decided it was time to leave, and we thanked the Thibaults and made our farewells.

The air was cool as Thomas and I walked to his car. “That was fun,” he said cheerily.

He was being great for letting me stay with him and helping out with Tiger, so I made an agreeable sound and commented on how good the meal was.

Before Ottawa, I would have been supremely uncomfortable at this dinner. While I did like Vince and maybe the real estate man’s wife—and Marguerite was all right, if maybe a little too carefully polished—to me these people mostly seemed like actors playing roles, reciting their lines, acting like they were having a good time whether they were or not.

It made me long to be somewhere I felt I belonged—either home or Ottawa. Just not here.

I
SLEPT HEAVILY, AND AWOKE WITH A SLIGHT HEADACHE, PROBABLY
from the wine. The note I found in the kitchen said Thomas had gone for a run with Tiger. My dog had abandoned me. Illogically, this made me cross.

I drank two glasses of water and swallowed an aspirin, then had a slice of whole wheat toast spread thickly with crunchy peanut butter. I brewed tea, and thought as I sipped it. Now I had information to turn over to the police, but I wasn’t going to waltz into the police station. I didn’t know how the police would view the type of nosing around I was doing, or even if it was legal. I plugged my laptop into Thomas’s modem and looked up the Burlington Police Department website, but it didn’t list email addresses or fax numbers. I wasn’t going to leave all these details in an anonymous phone call, so I’d have to resort to regular mail. I wrote:

I used Thomas’s printer to print out the note and an envelope. Then I emailed the details to Jameson. Of course he could tell the Burlington police about me, but I wasn’t going to keep this from him. If the police here tracked me down and I got in trouble, so be it.

I dropped the letter in the drive-by box at the post office, then went inside to check my box. It had been empty except for an advertising circular the last time I’d looked, so hope flickered when I saw several envelopes stuffed in it.

After I’d looked them over back at the apartment, I realized some people have nothing better to do than read personal ads and compose replies. And apparently a lot of them are crackpots. The pile included cryptic notes that said things like
All foriners are devils and should be sent back where they come from
, and a long letter in crabbed handwriting warning me about the end of the world and how to save myself. The saving process apparently involved much praying and copious donations to the included address.

Thomas, back by now, glanced over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently classified ads bring out the nutcases,” I said. When my TracFone in my pocket rang, I jumped. I gave Thomas a look before pulling it out to answer it. He knew me well enough not to laugh at me.

“Hello,” I said.

The voice on the other end was female, young, decisive. “Hello, this is Alyssa Cox from the Burlington
Free Press
. Is this the number to call about the two Canadian men?”

My pulse quickened. I got up and walked into my room. “Yes-s-s. Do you know their whereabouts?”

“No, but I’d like to talk to you about them.”

I was automatically shaking my head. “No, no press coverage.”

“Does this have anything to do with a young missing Canadian boy?”