“Hey, kiddo. Want a fish?” Tuck had her own cell phone in one hand. With the other she held out a cellophane bag of red gummies.
“Oh, hey, Tuck, no thanks, I-Oh. Hello? Hec? Yeah. It’s Jane Ryland. I’m calling about the photos. The ones we took on Callaberry Street? I was thinking-”
And like that, poof, her great idea went down the drain. Even if Hec had the digital card with the photos taken during their door-to-door, it didn’t matter. The police made an arrest. Every reporter on the planet would get shots of the suspect in a perp walk or the courtroom.
Tuck bit off a red tail, waved the rest of the gummy fish at her. “What’s wrong, Jane?”
Jane held up a hand. Hec’s voice in one ear, Tuck’s in the other, and it all ran together in a big tangle of failure. The Tillson story was over. There wouldn’t be any flashy Jane Ryland bylines. She might be safe at home, so that was a relief, but at the Register she was back to square one. That was not a good thing.
“Hec, never mind,” Jane said. “Keep the pictures, though, okay? You never know when-”
She paused as Hec interrupted her. “Well, I’m actually in the fabulous Natick rest stop, on the Mass Pike. With-did you ever meet Tucker Cameron? We’re driving out to Connecticut to-well, anyway. But about the Tillson case. Who’d the police arrest?”
“Jane?” Tuck was holding up her cell phone, shaking it back and forth. “Carlyn Beerman’s at home. We should go. Jane? I don’t like to interrupt, but-”
The flame-haired family exploded out of the bathroom door, the little girl wailing as her brother ran after the mop-tailed puppy that was now on the loose, snaking a pink leash across the rest stop’s dingy floor, yapping.
“Grab her, Allan! Grab her!” the mother shrieked.
“Sorry, Hec, I didn’t hear you.” Jane gestured to Tuck with her latte, trying to telegraph I can’t hear both of you at the same time.
“Jane.” Tuck held up her phone again, waving it at her.
Tuck’s phone was turned off, the screen obviously black, so what was Jane supposed to see? Hec was saying he had no idea about the arrest, but Tuck was so insistent she could barely understand him.
“We have to go, Jane.” Tuck stuffed the Swedish fish into her tote bag, then the phone. “Now.”
“Hec? I have to call you back. If you get the scoop, call me. Thanks, dude.” Jane clicked off, then trotted after Tuck, already headed for the door.
“What the hey, Tuck? I was on the phone.”
“I’m really sorry.” Tuck pushed through the glass door. “But I thought about what you said, about not knowing if she was home? Carlyn? So I called, and she answered.”
“What’d you say?” Jane, pushing through behind Tuck, raised her voice to be heard. They headed to Jane’s car.
“I hung up. But at least we know she’s home now, so we should hurry.”
Jane clicked open the car. “Hung up?”
“They told me she was my mother, you know?” Tuck looked at Jane over the roof of the Audi, then slid into the passenger seat.
“But you’re pretty sure she isn’t.” Jane put on her seat belt, turned the ignition, shifted into reverse.
Tuck stared straight ahead. “Right. So now I’ve got to tell her. That I’m a lie. That what she was told is not true. I suddenly-couldn’t do it. It didn’t seem right.”
Jane had to agree. “Yeah. I guess it’s not something you could say over the phone from a turnpike rest stop.”
“Exactly. I can’t explain how happy she was to see me that first time. She said she’d thought about me every day. Missed me, every day. I kept envisioning her face, looking at me with that… love. So I just hung up.” Tuck sighed. “So. Drive. Let’s go. Do this. Get this the hell over with. Then we’re going to find out exactly why this happened. To both of us.”
51
Yes. She’d simply get in her car, and go.
Maybe.
Ella sat at her desk, her old desk, not ready to move her possessions into Lillian’s quite yet. It was unnerving that Lillian’s body was still at the Medical Examiner’s. Morgue. Ella closed her eyes to make the thought go away. According to office scuttlebutt, the police hadn’t decided if she’d committed suicide, or if her death was suspicious.
When Ella arrived at the Brannigan this morning, Wednesday, Lillian’s desk had been cleaned out. Nothing on the top, nothing in the drawers. The desk surface, gleaming, held a faint fragrance of lemon oil. Ella had predicted they’d take everything, and they had. The roses. The photos.
Knowing Lillian was dead was hard enough to accept. Seeing her possessions gone made it final.
She’d never be invited to tea at Lillian’s again. Never go inside that beautiful home. Wonder what would happen to all of Lillian’s crystal and china? Her silver? She had no family Ella knew of.
She stirred her pink ceramic mug of English Breakfast, then dunked the tea bag up and down. Up and down. Deciding. Should she go?
Her computer monitor showed a map, a green line highlighting the suggested route from the Brannigan to Norrisville, Connecticut. A red teardrop labeled “destination” marked 4102 North Ritter Lane. Carlyn Beerman’s house.
Driving time: two hours.
Collins Munson had offered her the day off, so if anyone asked she could say she came in and tried to work, but Munson was right, it was difficult and she needed more time. Yes. She’d go.
She hit “print,” listened to the whir as the map emerged from the printer along the wall. It was just after nine. Maybe she should…
Ella eyed her desk phone, then the manila file open on her desk. She chewed her bottom lip, considering.
Before she could decide not to, she dialed, listened as the phone rang. The Brannigan’s phones all had caller-ID blocked, of course, no problem there.
“Carlyn Beerman,” a voice said.
The woman sounded annoyed. Snippy. Maybe Carlyn was having a bad day.
“Who is this?” the voice said. “Why do you keep calling me?”
“Oh.” Ella had forgotten she was going to hang up. “Uh, wrong number.”
She clicked the receiver back into place. The map lay in the printer bin. All she had to do was…
A knock at her door, and before she could say anything, it swung open. Grace O’Connor, dressed up in a black suit with a ruffled blouse, kept one hand on the doorknob.
“I saw you were here,” she said. “I thought you might-”
Ella stood up so quickly her desk chair tipped backward. It paused a fraction of a second, then crashed onto the floor.
“Oh, gosh.” Grace hurried across the room, helping Ella right it. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure, yes.” Ella tried to think. “It always does that.”
“Shall I get your printing?” Grace gestured a hand toward the printer.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Ella brushed past her, grabbed the map to Carlyn Beerman’s home and folded it in half, hiding the directions. Whew. “You look nice.”
“Well, the funeral. Mr. Brannigan’s. That’s why I came in. I thought you might need a ride.” Grace eyed Ella’s everyday skirt and cardigan, then pushed back the silky ruffle at her wrist and checked her watch. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Ardith Brannigan set it for today. Ten thirty. At All Saints.”
Ella slid two fingers along the fold of the map, then creased it again.
“I’m going to run home and change, that’s what I planned,” Ella lied. There would be no trip to Connecticut today. Her questions for Carlyn Beerman would have to wait. She smiled, trying to convey sorrow and authority. “I’ll see you there.”