“And what line was that?”
“She was a real estate agent. Very promising one, too, given how young she was. On the fast track.”
The mother dabbed at one eye with the dish towel. “The police asked us all these questions yesterday.”
“I’m sorry; I’ll try to be brief. I understand that your daughter died in Katahdin, Maine.”
A silence. Then Mr. Baxter nodded.
“Did she have relatives up there? Friends?”
“No,” the father said. “It was a conference for Sun and Shore — the realty company she worked for. Basically a getaway, a reward for the top-selling agents.”
“Sun and Shore Realty has offices all over the state,” the wife added as she refolded the dish towel.
“And did Elise have anybody she was close to at that time? A boyfriend, for example?”
The father nodded. “Matt. A good kid. In the submarine service — at least, he was at the time. Boomers.”
“Do you know if they had recently disagreed about anything?”
“They got along fine. Matt saw her whenever he rotated out. He was in the middle of a two-month tour when it happened.”
“And you say that she was happy in her work?”
“That job meant everything to her. Along with us, of course. And... and Matt.”
“Would you call her an optimistic person, in general?”
“You can stop right there,” Mr. Baxter said. “The cops wanted to know the same thing, so let me save you a little time. If our Lizzy was unhappy, she was an awful good actress. Job. Boyfriend. She’d even finished a course in personal safety the month before. You know: self-defense, intruder prevention, that kind of thing. Why would somebody planning to end their life take a course like that?” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”
“I understand that’s how it must seem — and the senselessness must make it all the harder to bear.” Pendergast paused a moment. “Just one more question. You say Elise lived here at home. Is her room currently occupied?”
The elderly couple exchanged glances. Then the husband shook his head.
“Would you mind if I took a look?”
A short silence. Then Harold Baxter rose. “I’ll show you the way.”
As the three were climbing the stairs, there was a sudden burst of childish squealing and shouting from outside. “The neighborhood’s changing,” Baxter said. “Lots of young folk moving in. We’ve talked about it, but we just don’t have the heart to leave the Grove... and this house.”
He stopped partway along the upstairs hall, opened a door, and waved his hand. “We haven’t changed anything.”
Pendergast stepped into the room. It was a bright, friendly space, painted canary yellow, with a canopy bed and blond wood furniture. There were two watercolors of beach scenes on the walls and some framed photographs on the dresser. As he glanced around, he noticed that the mother of the dead girl was hovering in the doorway.
He turned toward them. “Thank you most kindly,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
As her husband went downstairs, Mrs. Baxter pointed at a plastic evidence bag sitting on the bedside table. “Those are the personal effects they returned to us after Lizzy... from Maine. The police asked to take a look yesterday. I guess they left them on the nightstand.”
Pendergast walked over and picked up the bag. Inside were a small leather wallet, a ring of braided silver, and a gold chain with a medallion bearing the image of a saint with a wooden staff.
“That’s Saint Jude Thaddeus,” the woman said.
Pendergast turned it over in his hands. “The patron saint of lost causes.”
“She wore that necklace ever since her junior year of college. Never would tell us the reason.” Mrs. Baxter’s voice turned quiet and strange. “I ask myself why she ended her life every day. Every single day. But I never get an answer.” A sob. “She had so much to live for.”
Pendergast looked at her. “I know you still grieve,” he said quietly. “And you believe there must have been signs or clues you or your husband missed. But as difficult as it is, you should know: suicides that come without warning are the hardest to cope with — and with the only voice that can explain them gone, the ones that most defy comprehension. What you must not do is blame yourselves.”
As he spoke, the woman watched him closely. Then, as if on impulse, she stepped forward and, with both of her hands, closed his fingers around the medallion.
“Keep it,” she said.
Pendergast looked at her inquiringly. “Mrs. Baxter, I—”
She silenced him with a curt gesture. “Please. I think you’re someone who knows a little about lost causes.”
Then she turned away and followed her husband downstairs.
Pendergast remained motionless for a moment. Then he slipped the medallion into a suit pocket and, at the same time, pulled out a pair of latex gloves. He replaced the evidence bag, then began moving quickly around the room, examining knickknacks and toiletries and the volumes in the small bookcase. As Elise Baxter’s mother had said, the police had been up here already — he could see the confusing marks of their shoe prints on the floor and the disturbed dust on the bureau. This was vexing — even after all these years, he would have preferred the room as fresh as possible — but expected. Distantly, he heard the chimes of the doorbell from downstairs. Now he began opening various drawers — the dresser, the nightstand, the vanity — searching quickly through their contents, careful not to disturb anything.
Footsteps, quieter this time, sounded on the staircase once again. Pendergast removed the gloves and slipped them back into his pocket just before Agent Coldmoon — wearing a dark-gray suit — arrived in the doorway. He seemed a little out of breath, and beads of sweat had gathered on his temples. Arriving along with him was an odor foreign to Pendergast — something like singed cat hair mixed with butyric acid.
“Agent Coldmoon,” he said, stepping forward. “Dressed this time, I observe. How nice to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Coldmoon replied, shaking the proffered hand. “Although I’d expected to see you earlier.”
“You mean, on the six AM plane from LaGuardia? Yes. Well, given the nature of the case I thought it best to come down here without delay. I arranged for a flight late yesterday afternoon.” Pendergast sampled the air again. “Beg pardon, but would you consider it rude of me to ask what that unusual smell is?”
“What smell?”
“I don’t know. The smell that might linger on the clothes of someone who’d, say, just walked through a malodorous chemical refinery.”
Coldmoon said coldly, “I don’t smell anything. Now, do you think you could please get me up to speed?”
“Of course. Felice Montera, aged twenty-nine, was killed at roughly four AM yesterday, apparently while jogging before work — she was a nurse at Mount Sinai Medical Center, and her shift began at six. Her body was hidden beneath some shrubbery near the Miami Beach Boardwalk and found several hours later by a honeymooning couple. There was little good evidence at the crime scene. The local police have already interviewed numerous people — hotel workers, sanitation crews, nearby residents and vacationers — but no witnesses have come forward yet, and nobody heard anything: no scuffle, no cry. Ms. Montera had recently broken up with her boyfriend, but apparently he was not in Miami Beach at the time.”
“Have you seen the body?”
Pendergast nodded. “First thing this morning. It, too, afforded few clues. Apparently, the throat was cut by a knife, then the breastbone split with the single blow of a hatchet. There was no sign of rape or molestation — the killing was done quickly. Nothing appears to have been taken... except, of course, the heart. Beyond the note on Elise Baxter’s grave, and its mention of a gift, there seems to be no motive for Ms. Montera’s death. A few bloody sandal prints were found leading away from the scene, but given the preponderance of that style of footwear here, the police have little hope of it providing any useful evidence.”