Allan who? Sheila didn’t know anyone named-
Wait. Allan Butterfield. Sheila’s accounting teacher. Why would he have been calling her so frequently? And why would she have been refusing to take his calls?
I tossed the phone onto the desk, wondering what else there was to do. So many questions, so few answers.
I kept looking at the pills. Where would Sheila have gotten prescription drugs? How would she have paid for them? What was she planning to do with-
The money.
The money I socked away.
The only people who knew about the cash I had hidden in the wall were Sheila and myself. Had she gone into that? Had she used that money to buy these drugs with the idea of reselling them?
I opened my desk drawer and grabbed a letter opener. Then I went around the desk to the opposite corner of the room. I worked the opener into a seam in the wood paneling, and in a couple of seconds had a rectangular opening seventeen inches wide and a foot tall and about three inches deep.
I could tell, very quickly, whether the money stored between the studs was all there. I kept it in $500 bundles. I quickly counted, and found thirty-four of them.
The money I’d saved from years of under-the-table jobs was all there.
And so was something else.
A brown business envelope. It was tucked in behind the cash. I pulled it out, felt how thickly it was stuffed.
In the upper left corner, some writing: From Belinda Morton. And then, scribbled under that, a phone number.
I recognized it right away. I’d only seen it a couple of minutes ago.
It was the number Sheila had dialed at 1:02 p.m. the day she died. The number Arthur Twain said belonged to Madden Sommer.
The envelope was sealed. I worked the letter opener under the flap and made a nice clean cut, then stepped over to my desk and dumped out the contents.
Cash. Lots and lots of cash.
Thousands of dollars in cash.
“Holy Mother of God,” I said.
Then I heard the shot.
A shattering of glass.
Kelly screaming.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I was up the two flights of stairs in less than ten seconds.
“Kelly!” I shouted. “Kelly!”
Her door was still closed and I threw it open so fast I nearly pulled it off its hinges. I could hear Kelly screaming, but I didn’t see her. What I did see was shattered glass scattered across the floor and Kelly’s bed. The window that faced the street was a jagged nightmare.
“Kelly!”
I heard muffled crying and bolted for her closet door. I swung it wide and found her huddled in there atop a pile of shoes.
She leapt up and flung her arms around me.
“Are you okay? Honey? Are you okay? Talk to me!”
She pressed her head against my chest and sobbed, “Daddy! Daddy!” I was holding her so tightly I was afraid I’d break her.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Are you hurt? Did you get hit? By glass or anything?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “It scared me!”
“I know, I know. Honey, I have to see if you’re okay.”
She sniffed and nodded and allowed me to hold her a foot away. I was looking for blood and didn’t see any.
“You weren’t hit by the glass?”
“I was sitting there,” she said, pointing to the computer. Her desk was up against the same wall as the window, which meant that all the glass came in beside and behind her.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was just sitting there, and I heard a car going really fast and then there was a big bang and all the glass came in and so I ran into the closet.”
“That was smart,” I said. “Hiding like that. That was good.” I pulled her into my arms again.
“What did it?” she asked. “Did somebody shoot at the house? Is that what happened?”
There were other people who’d help us get the answers to those questions.
“Well,” said Rona Wedmore. “We meet again.”
She arrived soon after several Milford police cars showed up. The street was closed off and there was yellow police tape cordoning off our property.
“Small world,” I said.
Wedmore spent several minutes talking just to Kelly. Then she wanted to talk to me privately. When Kelly looked frightened at the thought of being separated from me, Wedmore called over one of the uniformed officers, a woman, and asked Kelly if she’d like to see what the inside of a police car was like. My daughter allowed the woman to lead her away only after I promised her it would be okay.
“She’ll be fine,” Wedmore assured me.
“Really?” I said. “Detective, someone just tried to kill my daughter.”
“Mr. Garber, I know you’re very upset right now, which, if you weren’t, I’d think there was something wrong with you. But let’s take this a step at a time, and sort out what we know and what we don’t know. What we know is pretty straightforward. Someone took a shot at your house, blew out your daughter’s bedroom window. But unless there’s something you know you’re not telling me, that’s about all we know for sure right now.
“In fact, judging by where your daughter was sitting when the shot was fired, it doesn’t seem likely anyone was aiming for her. She wouldn’t even have been visible from the street. On top of that, the curtains were pulled shut almost all the way. Add to that the fact that Kelly’s only eight, not very tall, and no one shooting up from the street through a window, at that angle, could expect to have hit anyone that small anyway.”
I nodded.
“All that said, someone still shot out the window of your daughter’s bedroom. You have any idea who might want to do that?”
“No,” I said.
“No one’s got a bone to pick with you? No one’s upset with you?”
“I got more people pissed off at me than I can count, but none that would take a shot at my house. At least, I don’t think so.”
“I guess Officer Slocum would be on the list of those pissed off at you.” I looked at her and said nothing. “I was at the visitation,” she reminded me. “And I know what you did. I know you took a swing at Officer Slocum.”
“Jesus, you think Slocum did this?”
“No,” she said sharply. “I do not. But who else have you taken a swing at lately that you’ve forgotten about? Do I need to start making a list?”
“I haven’t forgotten-look, I’m a bit rattled, okay?”
“Sure.” She shook her head. “You’re lucky, you know?”
“What? That someone took a shot at my house?”
“That you weren’t charged with assaulting a police officer.”
It had occurred to me.
“He isn’t pressing charges. I spoke to him about it personally. But you’re lucky. If some guy hit me, at my spouse’s visitation, that guy would be charged. Big-time.”
“Why isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t get the idea you guys are good friends. My guess is, he’ll find a way to settle it on his own. I don’t think he’d shoot up your house, but I’d keep an eye on your speed. If he doesn’t pull you over, one of his buddies will.”
“Maybe one of those buddies did it.”
Wedmore’s face was awash with concern. “I suppose that’s something we have to consider, isn’t it? When we dig that bullet out of your wall, we’ll be taking a look at it, seeing if it’s a likely match with a police officer’s weapon. But now that you’ve had a moment to think, is there anyone else whose toes you’ve stepped on lately?”
“It’s been a kind of… kind of a strange few days,” I admitted.
“Strange how?”
“I guess… I suppose it started with the sleepover.”
“Wait, the one at the Slocums’?”
“That’s right. There was kind of an incident there.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Kelly and Emily, the Slocums’ little girl, were playing hide-and-seek. Kelly was hiding in the Slocums’ bedroom closet when Ann came into the room to make a call. When she spotted Kelly there, she got very angry. She upset Kelly so much that Kelly called me to come take her home.”