The Abduction of Mary Rose (15 page)

The door was open a crack. The words were muffled, but slightly louder here. As he stood in the dim light from the lamp by the sofa, he glanced down at the clown on the coffee table, and barely aware of his action, compulsively flicked the yellow pom pom on its hat with a gloved finger, sending the clown into his predictable performance on its parallel bars.

Turning his back to its antics, he fixed his gaze on the door behind which the voice rose and fell: a voice that threatened to cause him problems, one he would silence forever.

She wouldn't be asking any more questions, nosing around, dredging up old bones. He stood very still. Very quiet. The sound of his breathing would have been hard to detect even by someone standing next to him. He was practised at stealth, at being silent—as adept as he was in silencing others.

He continued to listen to the sound of her voice as she read, but had little capacity to appreciate its warm, melodious quality or gift of storytelling. He reached into his back pocket and drew out the other black glove.

Calmly, taking his time, he worked his large hand into it. Then he flexed his fingers in the glove, smiling faintly. A smile that failed to reach his cold grey eyes. They should have aborted you. Well, better late than never.

His gloved hand gave the door a light push inward. In the same instant, the doorbell rang.

Chapter Twenty-One

At first, deep into the story, Naomi wasn't even sure it was the doorbell she'd heard, but then she saw Molly hissing at the door with hackles raised and ears flattened. Setting the book aside, the world of Lois and her adventures already fading from her mind like rags of dissipating cloud, she stood up.

"What's the matter, Molly?" she asked quietly. The doorbell rang again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

Molly was scratching at the door, frantic to get out. It wasn't like her to get so wrought up over a ringing doorbell. As soon as she opened the door, Molly scampered out between her feet and leapt up on the back of the sofa, hackles still raised. Naomi had started for the front door when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement and turned to see the little clown on the coffee table rocking to and fro, as he did when his flurry of somersaults had wound down. Strange. A draft from somewhere?

She peered through the peephole in the door before opening it, something she rarely had done before the article appeared in the paper. Frank. She unlocked and opened the door.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Naomi," he said apologetically. "I know it's late, but I wanted to get this to you before heading home. The file you wanted...."

"No, you're not disturbing me at all, Frank," she said, glad to see him, and especially pleased to see the file. "Thank you so much. Please come in." She took the manila envelope from his hand, noted with disappointment but not surprise, its thinness.

"I've been working too, but I was just about to quit so your timing's perfect. I'll put the coffee on. Did you have dinner? I can offer you a grilled cheese sandwich, which is what I had for my dinner, or scrambled eggs..."

"I've already eaten, but coffee would be great. I won't stay long," he said, following her out to the kitchen. "Sam's been out of sorts lately, so I want to get home. He's getting old. Hell, so am I. Anyway, I scanned the file and I wish I could say I uncovered something that would break the case open, but I can't. I don't think there's anything in it you don't already know."

She offered to take his coat, but he said he'd just leave it on, reiterating that he couldn't stay long. Naomi didn't press him. She was disappointed he'd found nothing significant in the file, but not surprised. Still, there could be something in there that would be helpful, something Frank or the cops, had missed. She was anxious to do her own read-through, but was careful not to seem to be rushing him. Frank had shown her nothing but kindness from the time she was a little girl; he was the uncle she never had. He was a good guy. Her mother probably should have married him.

"I made copies of the case photos. They won't be easy to look at," he warned.

"I know. I'll handle it. Thanks for including them, for trusting me."

He nodded, then looked away from her, an eyebrow shooting up

"Why is your back door open?"

Naomi turned to see it slightly ajar and alarm shot through her like a sudden infusion of cold water into her veins. "I don't know. I hardly ever use this door. It's always locked." She closed and locked it now.

"You've had a lot on your mind. Maybe you...."

"Yeah, maybe." But she was sure the door had been locked, and even if she was wrong about that, she definitely wouldn't have left it open.

She put the coffee on, seeing in her mind's eye the little clown rocking back and forth on his bars, Molly hissing at the studio door.

Someone unlocked that door from the outside, she thought, setting the cream and sugar on the table. Someone who meant her harm. Her shock at seeing that door open left her with a cold weight of fear in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't have given for that German shepherd the sergeant suggested. One that adored Molly, of course.

Frank was looking worriedly at her; she must look shaken, which reflected the truth of it. "I'm sure you're right, Frank. I guess I just forgot to lock it."

He frowned at her, his expression telling her he was unsatisfied at her answer, and questioning his own initial assessment of her stability. "I'm not so sure. Don't take unnecessary chances, honey. You be careful. Always make sure your windows and doors are locked," he added unnecessarily, going to the kitchen window and peering out into the darkness, hands spread before him on the sill. He turned away after a moment and sat down at the kitchen table. "I think we're in for more rain," he said. "The sky looked pretty angry on the drive here."

Naomi nodded, poured them each a steaming mug of coffee, pushed the pitcher of cream across to Frank and sat down across from him. "And I don't want you driving home in a downpour. Please don't worry about me, Frank. I'll be careful. I promise." She made herself smile.

Questions went round in her mind as she looked at the manila envelope on the table. Did Frank interrupt an intruder? Was that why Molly freaked out? Was there a connection between what was in that envelope and her door being open? Or did she, Naomi, admittedly more than a little scattered of late, leave the door unlocked, not quite closed, and it drifted open on its own? Or was her first instinct right and someone else unlocked it? Questions came full circle, then started round again.

Had the clown really been rocking on his bars, or was her mind playing tricks on her? She didn't voice her questions to Frank, though. It would serve no purpose but to worry him further, and delay the moment when she could be alone with the case file. Besides, she didn't want to keep him from Sam. You could tell he was really worried about his old friend. He'd got Sam as a puppy and was devoted to him. He was his family, like Molly was hers. That was the sad thing about pets, they left you before you were ready to let them go, not that you ever were. I can't imagine this house without Molly in it.

* * *

After Frank left, Naomi returned to the kitchen, opened the manila envelope and slid out the file folder. Before opening it, she wedged a chair under the door knob. It didn't take long to read through the file. Frank was right, there was nothing here she didn't already know, or hadn't read about in the Tribune accounts. No clues, no crumbs she could follow that would lead her to a killer. If she didn't hear from Sergeant Graham Nelson very soon, she would start making some calls on her own. He could call her Nancy Drew if he liked, but if Sergeant Nelson wasn't taking her seriously, then it was up to her to find the evidence that would change that.

She might even take her copy of the tape to a few bars in town and see if anyone recognized the voice. In her business as a voiceover, making the copy had been second nature to her. She always backed up everything. A couple of near-disasters had taught her that lesson well.

Still averting her eyes from the photos in the file, not yet ready emotionally to look at them, she went back over the notes in case she missed something. At a sudden loud crack of thunder, her heart banged against her ribcage and she looked up from the faded yellow page. At once, a flash of blue-white light filled the kitchen and lit up the back field like a surreal stage setting, complete with brush and scraggly trees. Almost simultaneously, the skies opened and the rain fell in torrents, battering the windows, sounding vaguely like applause in some great celestial amphitheatre.

There'll be no one walking around out there tonight, she thought with some relief. She was safe for the time being. No guarantee, of course. It depended on how driven he was. How impatient. He would know she was alone.
Stop it
! she told herself.
You can't even be sure you didn't leave the door open yourself.
But she was sure. Deep down, she was sure. She had to find out who he was before it was too late.

A second read-through of the notes left her no better informed than when she began.

Bracing herself, she let out a long, slow breath, then spread out the pictures on the table.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It rained for two days and then the sun came out. Despite a couple of sleepless nights, there were no further disturbing occurrences. On a more pleasant note, Lisa Boyce called, asking her if she was okay. They had a good talk, like old friends. She told her about her fruitless visit to the police station. Other than that, all was quiet. By Sunday, Naomi still had not heard from Sergeant Nelson and figured he had probably dismissed her from his mind the minute she closed the door behind her. Tomorrow she'd call him.

That afternoon she drove out to Fernhill Cemetery. Winding her way up through the narrow path to the gravesite, she parked the car and got out. She retrieved the two bunches of forget-me-nots from the back seat that she'd bought at the city market yesterday and proceeded up the narrow path toward the gravesite.

The air smelled clean after the rain, mingling with the faint scent of damp, upturned earth, the ground spongy beneath her feet. The sun shone weakly through a milky sky. But it was peaceful here, the silence interrupted only by an occasional birdcall, or a car passing by outside the cemetery gates.

She'd chosen for her mother's grave a pink marble headstone, with a dove engraved at the top, bearing an olive branch. As yet, only her name and the dates of her living and dying were carved on it.

Despite Edna's penchant for wanting to run things, the obituary had really been all she was interested in. The responsibility of the funeral and the headstone had fallen to Naomi, which was more than fine with her. She hadn't quite known what to have carved on it though and the man said there would be no problem coming back to the gravesite and etching into the stone whatever she decided. Beloved Wife of Thomas didn't work anymore. 'Beloved Mother of Naomi'?

Yes, that seemed exactly right.
Frank was right; in every way that mattered, she was my mother. And to hell with Edna.

Unmindful of the wet grass, Naomi knelt on the ground and set one of the bunches of the tiny blue flowers, her mother's favourites, on her grave. Then she laid her palm flat against the gravestone. At once, a warmth seemed to emanate from deep within the marble, washing through her like a wave of love, bringing tears to her eyes. Her throat thick with emotion, she said softly, "I miss you, Mom. I admit I was really angry at first that you lied to me, especially about … Thomas. But I understand now."

Crazily, she still felt Thomas was her father. She had not come close to severing the ties. "You did what you thought was right. But now that I do know, please understand that I have to find Mary Rose's killers."

She thought of the horrible pictures she'd made herself look at, every detail burned into her brain. No way would those men get away with what they did to her.