Shadow of Doubt (7 page)

“Robbie? What's going on?”

I told my dad what had happened.

“Where is the car parked?” he said. “On the street or around the back?”

“Around back.”

A few moments later I heard my dad calling my name.

“Over here,” I called.

He came flying around the side of the house, his coat unbuttoned, his face tense. He looked me over and seemed to breathe easier when he saw that I was unharmed. Ms. Denholm didn't even register his presence at first. She was staring at her car as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. My father looked at it and then at her. He tossed me his car keys. “There's a flashlight in the trunk of my car, Robbie. Get it for me, will you?” He nodded at Billy and then cautiously approached Ms. Denholm.

Her eyes widened when she saw him. She retreated a step, as if she was afraid.

“Ms. Denholm, my name is Mac Hunter. I'm Robyn's father.”

“Her father?” Ms. Denholm looked at me for confirmation. I nodded. Her whole body relaxed. She extended a hand to him.

“Melissa Denholm. Robyn's English teacher.”

“So I've heard,” my father said. “What happened to your car?”

Ms. Denholm looked at the Toyota again and shook her head in disbelief.

“Was anything stolen?” my father said.

Ms. Denholm shook her head again.

My dad turned to me.

“Robbie. Flashlight.”

I trotted around the side of the house to his car, which was parked at the curb out front. When I returned with the light, Ms. Denholm was saying, “...but she's eighty-two years old and nearly deaf. Besides, she spends her evenings in bed with her TV at almost full volume.”

“Are there any other tenants? Anyone who might have seen or heard something?”

“Only Nat,” Ms. Denholm said. “She's in the rear apartment.” She pointed, and my father craned his neck to look up. “But she's not home.”

“Was she here when you got home after school?”

Ms. Denholm shook her head.

My father turned slowly and surveyed the area. The property was surrounded on three sides by dense cedar shrubs that stood at least six feet high. I could see the second stories of some of the nearby houses, but I didn't see lights on in any of them.

“Your landlady likes her privacy, I see,” my father said. “Still, it's possible somebody saw or heard something.” He asked Ms. Denholm to move away from the car. Then he circled it, running the beam of his flashlight over every surface of the car and the ground around it. It had snowed a few days earlier, so there was a mishmash of slush, tire tracks, and other marks on the ground. But even I could see that the only distinct footwear impressions around the car were from Ms. Denholm's high-heeled boots. She'd made them as she'd circled the car, looking in horror at the damage. When my father finished his inspection, he shook his head. “Can you think of anyone who might have done this?”

Ms. Denholm looked at him, the same worried expression on her face that I had seen earlier in the day.

“Are you a police officer?” she said.

“No,” my dad said. “Why?”

“You sound like one.” The way she said it made me think that this was not a good thing, as far as she was concerned. If my dad noticed, he didn't let it bother him.

“But you should call the police,” he said, “and report the incident.”

Ms. Denholm shook her head. “They won't do anything.”

My father glanced at me, maybe to see if I knew why she had such a negative view of the police. I just shrugged. “Ms. Denholm, your insurance company will want you to file a report before they pay for any repairs to your car,” he said gently. “They'll insist on it. Why don't you let me make the call?”

She looked at him for a few moments, trying to decide. Finally, reluctantly, she nodded. He punched some numbers into his cell phone and reported the incident. When he had finished, he said, “They'll be here as soon as they can. Would you like us to wait with you?”

Ms. Denholm shook her head.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Maybe it was one of those homeless people the neighbors are always talking about. There's a shelter for homeless men nearby.”

“It's over on Selwyn Street,” Billy said. “That's just two blocks from here.”

“I've heard people talking. They complain that the homeless take over the park in summer,” Ms. Denholm said.

My dad looked doubtful. “I could understand if something had been stolen, like the stereo. But what reason would a homeless person have to completely trash your car?” he said. “Have there been other incidents of vandalism in the area?” Ms. Denholm didn't say anything. She just stared at her battered car.

“I'd feel better if you let us keep you company until the police arrive,” my father said. Every time he mentioned the word
police
, Ms. Denholm's face changed ever so slightly. My father was watching her closely. He said, “Has this sort of thing happened before?”

“Thank you for your help,” Ms. Denholm said. “But I can take care of things from here. Really, you don't have to worry.”

“Ms. Denholm—”

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Good night, Robyn. Billy.” She went inside.

I glanced at Billy. He looked worried.

“I'll drive you kids home,” my dad said. “But I want to wait until the police get here.”

A cell phone rang. It was Billy's. He answered it and listened for a moment.

“Um...I'm with Robyn,” he said finally. “No, I didn't forget.” He checked his watch. A look of panic crossed his face. “I'm on my way.”

“Morgan?” I said when he had finished his call.

“I was supposed to help her with a bio assignment,” he said.

“And you forgot.”

“Don't tell her, okay, Robyn?”

I promised I wouldn't and shook my head as I watched him scurry for the bus stop. Then I got into the car with my dad.

“You don't think a homeless person wrecked Ms. Denholm's car, do you?” I said.

“I've heard people complain about the homeless lingering too long in coffee shops or the library or taking over street corners. But I've never heard of a homeless person trashing someone's car like that for no reason. When someone does that, they're usually sending a message.”

I knew by that expression that something was bothering him.

“What is it, Dad?” I said.

“I'm just thinking.”

So was I. “It didn't take you long to get to Ms. Denholm's house after you called me.”

“Like I said, I was in the neighborhood.”

“Did you get my message?”

He nodded.

“Sorry about the change of plans,” I said. I explained about the wallet. “I'm glad you were in the area. I don't think Ms. Denholm would have called the police if you hadn't talked her into it.” I told him about the flowers she had received at school.

“When did this happen?”

“Last week.”

“Did she call the police?”

“I don't think so.”

He asked me a few more questions and then fell into a thoughtful silence.

A police cruiser pulled up opposite Ms. Denholm's house, and two uniformed officers got out. My dad crossed the street to meet them. They all stood together for a few moments, with Dad doing most of the talking. The uniformed cops went up to the house. My dad got back into the car and put it into gear.

I was half-expecting him to grill me about Ms. Denholm on the way home. My father is a naturally inquisitive person; he says it's either an occupational prerequisite or an occupational by-product, he can't decide which. But he surprised me by not asking anything.

“So how's it going with the job you're doing for Ted?” I said, mostly to break the silence.

My dad glanced at me. “You know I can't discuss that.”

“Ted told Mom and me what you're doing—all about it,” I said. “Have you made any progress?”

“Come on, Robbie. You know that any work I do for a client is confidential.”

“But it's Ted. He's practically family.”

Up went one of my father's eyebrows. “Oh?” he said. “Has your mother given him an answer?” He tried to sound casual about it, but the searching glance he gave me was anything but casual.

“You know
I
can't discuss
that
,” I said. “Anything and everything about Mom's personal life is confidential.”

My father glanced at me again. Then he reached over and pushed the button that started the CD player. Late-sixties rock. Played loud. I sat back and wondered about Ms. Denholm's car. Who had smashed it up? And why? And why had Ms. Denholm seemed so reluctant to get the police involved?

It was only after my dad had dropped me off that another question came to me. How had he known that he was in Ms. Denholm's neighborhood when he called me? I hadn't mentioned her address in the message I'd left him or when he'd called to ask if I wanted a lift. He hadn't asked for it, either. In fact, the only thing he'd asked was whether Ms. Denholm's car was parked out front or in back, which meant that he already knew where she lived. But
how
?

More to the point,
why
?

M

organ had been in a bad mood ever since lunchtime, when Billy announced that he was staying after school to meet with Ms. Denholm. She had shown up that morning looking ghostly pale, except for the dark circles under her eyes.

“What are you meeting about?” Morgan asked.

Billy replied that he had “some pretty good ideas” about set design that he wanted to run by Ms. Denholm.

“Ms.
Rachlis
, you mean,” Morgan said. “She's the teacher in charge of sets.”

Billy's cheeks turned pink. “Ms. Rachlis
and
Ms. Denholm,” he said.

“Okay,” Morgan said. “Where and when is the meeting?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“So I can be there too.
I'm
working on sets with you, remember?”

Which is when Billy surprised us both by saying (sweetly, of course) that he appreciated the offer but that he really didn't need Morgan's help at this point and that, as set director, he felt that he would make a more professional impression if he met with Ms. Denholm and Ms. Rachlis alone instead of dragging his girlfriend along.

Morgan's face morphed into a mask of indignation. “Fine,” she said, although it was clear that she regarded the situation as anything but. “If that's what you want.”

Billy smiled (still sweetly) and kissed her on the cheek. She melted—she never failed to melt when Billy kissed her—and that was that. I couldn't figure out whether Billy was oblivious to Morgan's feelings or if he had figured out how to do what no one else on the planet was capable of doing: get his way despite Morgan's objections and without her vowing revenge in return.

Although Morgan wasn't angry with Billy anymore, she was still in a rotten mood. And that mood wasn't likely to improve when I told her, “Sorry, but it looks like my plans have just changed. I don't think I can go with you after all.”

“What do you mean, your plans have changed?” she said. “You
said
you'd go to the paint store with me.” Not only had Billy finessed her out of the meeting with Ms. Denholm and Ms. Rachlis, but he had also successfully talked her into doing an errand for him. Her task: go to the local paint store and come back with an armload of samples for Billy's perusal.

“I know,” I said. “But something just came up.” I nodded toward the street. Morgan followed my gaze.

“Who is that?” she said.

“I think you need glasses,” I said. “It's Ted.” He was sitting in his car across the street. The only reason I could think of for his being there was that he was looking for me.

“I think
you
need glasses,” Morgan said. “Or did Ted suddenly get a lot taller, a lot younger, a lot cuter, and grow a whole lot more hair?”

I shifted my gaze slightly and saw that she wasn't looking where I was looking. Morgan was staring at a tall, young, and—she was right—incredibly good-looking man with a head of thick black hair standing on the sidewalk on our side of the street.

“If it weren't for the cigarette, he'd be perfect,” Morgan said.

“Hmmm?” I said absently. I had turned back to Ted's car. He sat behind the wheel, looking at the school, but he didn't wave or give any other sign that he'd seen me. What was going on?

“What is he doing?” Morgan said.

Good question
, I thought.

“It looks like he's squishing it or something,” Morgan said.

“What?” I glanced at Morgan. “What are you talking about?”

“That guy,” she said. I looked at him again. He was rolling a bent cigarette between his thumb and his first two fingers. “You don't think that's weird? Not to mention that it's littering.”