Searching for Celia (10 page)

At last Callaway’s phone rings and goes straight to voice mail. I swallow hard, struggling to speak. “DC Callaway? This is Dayle Salvesen. We just heard on the news about…the woman. Near the river. Is it Celia?” My voice cracks. I take a deep breath and exhale. “I’m at Celia’s flat with Edwina. Please let us know.”

I put down the phone and stand, finding the strength to go to Edwina, who is still crouched at the sink, head bowed, dish towel wrapped around fists that have turned marble-cold and a bloodless white. “It’s okay,” I whisper, taking the towel and helping her stand. She is trembling and in shock: eyes hollow, pupils fixed. I take her elbow and guide her to Celia’s stacked mattresses, where we sit, side by side. “It’s okay,” I say, stroking her back and patting her hand.

“She’s gone,” Edwina whispers between sobs. “Celia’s gone.”

“I know,” I reply, not believing it.

“My sweet, beautiful girl is gone.”

“I know.” I close my eyes as the room goes dark, and deep in the recesses of my mind a wisp of an image stirs, collects itself, and assumes the physical form of Cecelia Frost. Celia the liberator, the freer of souls, being ferried across a river to safety on the other side. A boat slices through the mist, piloted by a ghostly boatman rowing steady, empty, even strokes, parting the fog in order to ease Celia’s passage. All those she freed, the desperate and downtrodden, assemble on the opposite bank to welcome her into their fold, waiting with a feast prepared especially for her.

“We have to believe that she is free,” I tell Edwina, feeling the weight of her head against my temple as her helpless body collapses at my side. “She’s safe, and no one can hurt her now.”

Wednesday

6:06 p.m.

Suddenly the phone rings and Edwina and I both jump. I can feel her heart hammering through her back as my own heart explodes in my throat. “Must be Callaway,” I whisper.

I rise from the bed and stumble the few steps to Celia’s desk. Fingers shaking, I grab the phone, nearly dropping the receiver. As I press the phone to my ear, I hear only my own rushing blood. I sit down quickly at Celia’s desk and try to catch my breath. “Hello?”

“Dayle? Glad I caught you.”

“Mom?” I ask hoarsely.

“Yes, hon. You’re probably getting ready for your conference, but I’m calling to see if Celia’s all right.”

“What?” My head spins.

“I’m here at the condo feeding your cats and there’s a message from Celia on your answering machine, asking you to call her right away.”

I swallow hard before speaking. “Mom, I’ve got some bad news. We think Celia killed herself this morning.”

“Good Lord! What happened?”

Struggling to think clearly, I quickly summarize what we know, and then ask, “What time did Celia leave that message?”

“What time?”

“Yes. It might be important.”

“Just a sec.” I hear her press the message button on the answering machine, followed by the drone of a distant mechanical voice, and somewhere, farther off, the frantic disembodied voice of Cecelia Frost, begging me to get in touch.

“Yesterday afternoon, 4:07,” Mom repeats. “Isn’t that right after you left for the airport?”

“Yes.” My mind races. “I left at quarter to four—4:07 Chicago time would have been a little after ten p.m. in London. What else did her message say?”

“Nothing. Just that she wanted you to call her right away. She sounded terrified.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“Yes.” My mother repeats the number but I’m too addled to follow.

“Hang on a minute.” I hold my hand over the receiver and call to Edwina, “Is your cell phone close by?”

Still sitting slack shouldered and hollow eyed on the bed, she nods robotically.

“Dial this for me.” I return to my call. “Mom, give me that number again.”

I repeat the numbers slowly. Edwina punches the digits into her cell phone and then presses it to her ear.

Suddenly my backpack begins to vibrate. Edwina’s face drops. “My God,” she gasps.

I reach into my backpack and pull out the phone—the one that had been stashed behind Celia’s bed earlier in the day.

“Dayle! What is it?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, turning off Celia’s cell phone mid-ring. “That number is for a new cell phone with a foreign area code that I found stashed behind Celia’s bed. Celia wanted me to call her back on this number. But she obviously didn’t have this phone with her when she last left here.”

“Baby, you need to come home,” Mom says in a voice weak with worry. “Please come home.”

“I will. After my speech. I’m booked on a flight tomorrow afternoon.” I glance at the clock. “I need to go. I’ll call if there’s any news.”

“Honey, please be careful.”

“I will. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

I hang up the phone and look at Edwina. Some of the color has returned to her face as she stares at the cell phone clutched in her hand. “The number I dialed—the country code is Ireland,” she says softly.

“Ireland?”

She nods. “Yes. I presented a paper at Trinity College last year and made several calls while there. That’s the country code—353. Celia’s phone was registered in Ireland.”

“Does Celia have business there? Friends? Contacts?”

Edwina shakes her head slowly, squinting into the distance. “None, so far as I know. I don’t believe she’s ever even been there on holiday.”

“She must have planned to go to Ireland sometime soon. When I arrived this morning, I found maps of Dublin and the DART here on Celia’s desk.” I press my good hand against the metal surface. “It can’t be a coincidence, the cell phone and maps both connected to Ireland.”

“Should we ring Callaway?”

I sigh. “No. Not now. Let’s wait for her to get back to us about…you know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words.

“You’re
still
going to the conference?”

“Yes. I have to.” I rise from Celia’s desk and my knees nearly give out beneath me. I grab my backpack, dump the contents onto Celia’s kitchen table, and stuff a few key items—my wallet, lipstick, cell phone, business cards, ballpoint pen—into my attaché case.

“You’re leaving those behind?” Edwina nods at Celia’s wad of cash, the Marguerite Alderton credit card, and the ferry ticket still on the table.

“Yes. They’re safer here.”

“How do you reckon? The flat was ransacked.”

“Exactly,” I explain. “Whoever turned the place over didn’t find the items. So, believing they aren’t here, there would be no point in searching the flat again.”

She sighs. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Edwina phones for a taxi and we head downstairs to wait on the front steps of the building. It’s twenty after six and the last light of day fades in the western sky as streaks of powder blue and pink bleed through the semisolid curtain of faceless gray. The last light of day, a day whose end Cecelia Frost did not live to see. All the days that still lie ahead and she will not be any part of them; she will never know about anything that happens from now on.

Edwina stands stiff backed beside me, heaving silent tears that gather at her jaw before dropping solidly onto her collar. I have no idea what to say. Traffic up and down Rosslyn Hill is steady as headlight after headlight blinks to life, illuminating the rain-slicked pavement and throwing dancing half-circles and shimmering crescents of light that burn brightly for an instant before they soften and die.

“Will you be okay?” I finally ask. “Is there someone you can stay with tonight?”

She brushes her cheek and jaggedly inhales. “My brother Julian lives in Peckham.”

“Good.” Before I can say more, the taxi arrives, screeching stiffly to a halt just before the curb. We walk down the steps and Edwina opens the door and helps me in. Once I’m settled into the backseat she passes me my attaché case, carefully avoiding my injured hand.

“Be brilliant,” she says, propping open the door, leaning in, and forcing a brave smile. “That’s what Celia would have wanted.”

“I’ll do my best,” I whisper in reply.

Edwina closes the door with a muffled thud and I feel the echo somewhere deep within my broken metacarpal.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asks, glancing in the rearview mirror. He is a fiftysomething East Asian with large dark eyes and slicked-back hair trimmed neatly above his collar.

“Dartmouth House. Thirty-seven Charles Street, Mayfair.”

“Oh, very posh, miss,” he pronounces, raising his chin and smiling so I can see the brilliant reflection of his teeth.

He jackrabbits into traffic and I tumble back into the seat. I should review the notes for my speech but I’m still numb, trying to comprehend that Cecelia Frost is gone, that I will never again see her face or hear her voice. Mostly I want to say a prayer for her soul and ask her to look after my Rory, but Celia would despise such soft sentimentality; to her, life was for the living and death was just plain death, the end of everything.
The rest is silence
, as she liked to quote.

Suddenly the driver slams on the brakes and curses beneath his breath. He glances nervously in the rearview mirror and apologizes profusely, but I catch the intensity in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No, I am certain it is nothing,” he reassures me.

I turn quickly and gaze straight into the penetrating headlights of a large white van creeping closer to our back bumper. Visible in the front seat are the silhouettes of two broad-headed, square-shouldered men.
No
, I think.
Please, no
.

Wednesday

6:29 p.m.

“I need your help,” I tell the driver, trying not to panic. “I think I’m being followed.”

His black eyebrows, reflected, rise above the upper edge of the rearview mirror. “Is it the paparazzi?”

Paparazzi? Who does he think I am? “No, but I may be in danger,” I say quickly. “Can you lose the van behind us?” The hot yellow lights of the vehicle burn into the back of my head, then creep over my shoulder and circle my throat.

This part of London, full of quiet, tree-lined suburban streets, does not offer much opportunity for evasive driving maneuvers, but the cabbie surprises me by turning off Belsize Avenue, barreling through an intersection and zigzagging up and down a number of side streets and narrow residential lanes before slipping into a steady stream of evening traffic moving through Swiss Cottage, heading south into the city. I turn, cup my good hand against the back window, and peer out to see if we’re being followed. We aren’t.

“How did I do, miss?” the cabbie asks breathlessly as we careen down Finchley Road.

“Great,” I reply. “Actually, that was impressive.”

“Yes, very cloak-and-dagger,” he agrees, sounding satisfied as we resume a normal speed. Of course super-spy Redleigh Smith is an expert defensive driver. In
Assignment: Khartoum
she commandeers a Mini Cooper and races across a Sudanese sand dune littered with land mines while simultaneously dodging machete-wielding elements of the militant Janjaweed.

*

There is no sign of the white van as the cab stops in front of Dartmouth House, the headquarters of the English-Speaking Union. The building is a large, luxurious Georgian town house located just southwest of Berkeley Square in the heart of Mayfair, one of the most exclusive areas of central London. After paying the driver I rush through the entrance’s imposing marble columns, beneath two flags, the Union Jack and the St. George’s Cross, and into the dazzling lobby. Once the doors are safely closed behind me, I peer through the glass and look up and down the street as I wait to catch my breath. Nothing. I’m just being silly. I probably only imagined I was being followed.

I turn around and proceed farther into the crowded lobby, where I am greeted by a large easel holding a placard with my black-and-white book jacket photo, blown up to enormous proportions, above big block letters that announce my keynote address.

I glance at my watch: 6:55. I was supposed to be here by 6:30. I’m almost half an hour late. I leave my coat at the coat check and as I thread my way through the elegant lobby jam-packed with conference attendees, my broken hand wakes with pain, seizing in response to the slightest brush of passing fabric. I wish I had the paracetamol that the nurse at the hospital recommended. My nerve endings are raw, constricting in anticipation as people barrel past me, some clutching books or bottled water, others attempting to lasso stacks of loose papers.

Suddenly Felicity Marchman, the conference organizer, pinpoints me in the crowd. I recognize her from her photo on the conference website. “Candee Cronin!” she bellows, rushing toward me. “We were worried you’d never get here. No one was even certain whether your flight had landed.”

Damn.
I was supposed to phone the organizers as soon as I arrived in London. They had disapproved of me flying in on the day of the conference and now, apparently, I have lived up to their lowest expectations.

“My goodness—what have we here?” Ms. Marchman’s gaze sweeps broadly across my body, from shoulder to shoulder, and lands, horrified, on my left arm. “You appear to have some sort of…
injury
.” She draws out the word injury as if I’ve committed a serious social faux pas by appearing in public with a plaster cast on my wrist.

“Yes.” I slip the arm with the cast behind my back, out of sight. “An accident at Tottenham Court Road.”

Her round, florid face betrays no sympathy as she withdraws a sheet of paper from the folder she is holding and thrusts it toward my shoulder. “Here is the conference agenda.
We’ve
been at it since nine a.m., you know. Of course you weren’t here for the afternoon sessions. Beatrice Allenby’s presentation on Taking Your Passion into Print was especially well received.”

Beatrice Allenby—I recognize the name. Her first novel, a roman à clef about a young intern’s affair with a Cabinet minister, has caused quite a stir. A recent graduate of the University of East Anglia’s creative writing program, Beatrice is the London literati’s flavor of the month, complete with model-quality good looks and a suitably tragic backstory. Celia and I were once flavors of the month, it occurs to me, but that was years ago now.