Married to a Stranger (23 page)

“You drove?” she asked, surprised. Most of the kids at the center had lost their licenses due to drug or alcohol problems.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I got my own car.”

“Well thanks, Kieran, but my husband’s coming for me.”

Kieran shrugged. “Okay.”

“Don’t speed,” she said.

“Can’t. The cops pull me over every time they see me as it is.”

Emma glanced at the magenta hair and the third eye. I’ll bet they do, she thought.

“Have a good weekend, Kieran.” Stay safe, she thought.

A
UDIE
O
SMUND
gazed in disgust from the plastic Baggies full of illegal prescription drugs on his desk to the clean-cut, neatly dressed, handcuffed young man seated in front of Audie’s beat-up, army green metal desk.

“Farley, you should be ashamed of yourself. You, a teacher. Selling this poison to your own students.” Audie shook his head.

“I wasn’t—” Bob Farley began to protest.

“Don’t bother,” Audie said. “Just don’t bother. We caught you red-handed, my friend. That little girl you sold these pills to at the school dance, where you were supposed to be a chaperone, is my sergeant’s niece. We’ve had our eye on you for months. We’ve just been biding our time, waiting for you to approach her.”

“It’s entrapment. When my lawyer gets here—” Farley announced.

“It’s not entrapment when you approached her,” said Audie. “You are going away for this, and the parents around here will breathe a lot easier because of it.”

“Those kids’ll find another source,” Farley said.

Audie shook his head. “It must be sad to have so little self-respect. Gene,” Audie bellowed to his sergeant. “Come get this scum. I can’t stand to look at him.”

Tall, muscular Gene Revere, neat in his khaki uniform, came into Audie’s office and nudged Farley to his feet. “Come on, you…”

As Farley stood up, Gene said to Audie, “That woman’s here to see you. The one who saw the husband out at the Zamskys’ cabin?”

Audie sat up straighter. “Mrs. Tuttle?”

“That’s the one.”

“Send her in,”

Gene dragged the drug pusher to his feet and began to haul him out of Audie’s office. “Go on in, miss,” he said.

Donna Tuttle, her black hair spiky, wearing a brown Henley shirt, which showed off her very fine figure, beneath a camouflage jacket, edged past the scowling, preppy-looking teacher and into the chief’s tiny office. “Chief Osmund, my son gave me your message. I was going to call you, but then I figured I would just come on in and see you when I got back,” she explained.

“Mrs. Tuttle. So good of you to come in. You sit right down there. I want to show you this picture. How’s your memory today?”

“Sharp as a tack,” she said, nodding her head.

“Be right back,” Audie muttered. He went out into the main room of the tiny station house and rummaged on Gene Revere’s desk for the manila folder they had prepared for Donna Tuttle’s visit. He found it without much difficulty. The file held six photos. One of them was a photo of David Webster. The others were mug shots of men somewhat similar in appearance. None of them was as square-jawed, or generally good-looking, as David Webster, but they all had longish dark hair and no glasses or facial hair. That was the best Audie could do.

Audie carried the folder back into his office and leaned over his desk on the side where Mrs. Tuttle was seated. He blocked her view as he removed the six photos from the folder and set them out in two rows of three on his desk, facing her. Then he stepped back so she could see them. “Now,” he said. “I want you to look at these photos and tell me which one of them was the man you spoke to at the Zamskys’ cabin that day. The day you told me about.”

Donna Tuttle nodded solemnly, a citizen ready to do her part for truth and justice. She stood up and leaned over the desk, frowning as she picked up each of the photos and muttering to herself. Audie saw her pick up the photo of David Webster and stare at it. Audie tried not to give away any inkling of his own feelings.

Donna tilted the photo back and forth, and then looked at Audie. “He’s a looker, isn’t he?” she said. “Looks like a movie star.”

Audie leaned forward. “Is that the man you saw at the house that day?” he asked.

Donna sighed and chuckled. “Oh yeah. You don’t forget a face like that.” She set the photo back down, glanced once again at the rogues gallery, and then shook her head. “And by the way, you know what? I was thinking about it. You asked me if he was alone out there and I said I didn’t see anybody.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, for some reason it bothered me. Like I hadn’t exactly told the truth about it. But then I remembered. I didn’t see another person. But I did see a bra and a pair of woman’s panties on the porch railing. Like they’d been washed out and hung out there to dry.”

Audie exhaled and sat back heavily in his chair.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mrs. Tuttle asked.

“No,” said Audie. “You did fine.”

“If there’s any other way I can help, Chief, I’d be happy to—”

“Chief,” called out Gene Revere.

Audie stood up. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“Some kind of attack out on Chapel Hill Road. We better get out there pronto.”

“Mrs. Tuttle, I have to go,” said Audie.

Donna Tuttle tried to reply, but before she could, Audie had grabbed his jacket and cap and was out the door.

D
AVID LED
Emma out of the front steps of the Wrightsman Youth Center and closed the door behind them.

He reached out a hand to help her down the steps.

Emma stopped short and watched as Kieran Foster roared off in his late-model PT Cruiser, thinking about what he had said at the group. That he planned to be dead in five years. How did his life get to be so hopeless? Of course, it could just be teenaged gothic romanticism. For these kids, sex, love, and death made for a potent brew. Still, among her patients, any talk of death had to be taken seriously.

“What’s the matter?” David said.

Emma shook her head. “One of my kids.”

David frowned. “Come on. Let’s get in the car,” he said. He took her by the arm and led her toward the car. “The only kid I’m worried about is the one you’re carrying in your belly there.” He helped her into the passenger seat and then went around and got into the driver’s side.

“How did it go with your mother?” she asked as he pulled out into the road.

David shrugged. “I got her home,” he said. “She thinks I’m my brother, Phil.”

“Really?” Emma asked. “A little confused?”

“More than a little. Birdie was already pouring rum into her coffee when I left.”

“Into your mother’s coffee?” Emma exclaimed.

“No, her own. Although it might not hurt. My mother’s heart needs a jump start.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He said this is a temporary respite.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

David shrugged. “Maybe a heart will come along.”

Emma glanced at him as he drove. She knew it had to bother him that his mother mistook him for his brother, even as he was trying to care for her. And he had to be worried about her failing health, even though he rarely talked about it. In one way, she admired his stoic attitude. But Helen was the only parent he had ever really known. The prospect of her imminent death had to be frightening. Emma presumed that he was afraid, and that he kept his fears hidden. But now, she wondered. Was it more deception on his part? He admitted last night that he had trouble with the truth. Would she ever really know how he felt?

He glanced over at her. “What?” he asked.

Emma shook her head. “Shall we go over there now so I can visit her?”

“You know what?” he said. “She was sleeping when I left. It would be better if we went later. And I am starving. How about we go out for a late lunch? I read about this little inn a few miles out of town that serves all afternoon. Let’s give ourselves a break. Try to enjoy the afternoon. What do you say?”

Suddenly, Emma realized that she too was ravenous. “That sounds good.”

I
T HAD NOT BEEN DIFFICULT
to locate and interview the ticket sellers who were on duty at the Clarenceville bus station on Monday afternoon. It was exactly the same crew that was working on this Thursday afternoon. Earlier, Trey and Joan had entered Lizette Slocum’s apartment with the aid of Jarvis, the landlord, who arrived after a half an hour’s wait, and ascertained that Lizette had not written anything about a trip in her daybook or on her wall calendar. Because the nurse’s agency did not have a photo of Lizette, they were looking for one in her apartment. They picked up a photo off Lizette’s desk of a smiling Lizette and an older woman whom she resembled. The woman with the hummingbird sweatshirt told them that the photo looked recent. They took it with them to the bus station.

As one clerk after another asserted that they did not remember selling a bus ticket to Lizette Slocum, Joan got on the phone and asked the manager of the Toyota dealership to come down to the bus station and bring his skeleton keys for the year and model of Lizette’s car. Eager to cooperate with the police, the manager said he would be there shortly. Now Joan stood looking out at the brown Toyota in the parking lot as she waited for the results of Trey’s last interview. He was meeting with the bus station supervisor, who had retrieved the week’s worth of surveillance tapes and was going through the tapes of Monday afternoon to see if Lizette Slocum appeared anywhere on them. The side door to the bus station opened, and a dark-haired man with a mustache came in wearing a tie and sports jacket. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Atkins?” he said.

Joan walked over to him. “Are you Mr. Vetri?”

“I am,” he said.

“I’m Lieutenant Atkins.” She shook hands with the salesman. “You brought the keys?”

“Got ’em right here,” said Vetri cheerfully, patting his jacket pocket.

Just then, Trey Marbery emerged from the supervisor’s office. Joan looked at him questioningly.

Trey shook his head.

Joan took a deep breath. “All right,” she said. “Let’s open the car up.”

The three of them walked across the parking lot to the brown Toyota. The early twilight of November was beginning to descend on them. The manager tried several keys, and then they heard the locks click. They opened the driver’s door and looked inside. The car was not new, but it was extremely clean inside. No empty paper coffee cups, no loose change on the floor, no empty plastic soda bottles under the seat. Lizette Slocum was a person of tidy habits. Joan straightened up from inspecting the backseat and looked across the roof at Trey, who had been searching the passenger side.

“Trunk?” she said.

Trey nodded.

“Mr. Vetri, can you pop the trunk for us?”

“Sure thing,” said the manager cheerfully. He found the key and put it into the lock. Then he pressed the lever and pulled it open. His eyes widened and a look of anguish came over his face. “Oh no,” he cried as if he’d been deceived. “She’s in there. Did you know she was in here?”

Joan and Trey looked into the trunk. Lizette Slocum was curled up, her backpack thrown on top of her. Her eyes were open, and her skin was a splotchy gray.

Joan Atkins sighed. “I was afraid she might be,” she said.

I
T WAS NEARLY FIVE
and the sky was charcoal gray when David and Emma returned to their cul-de-sac after their long, leisurely lunch and headed down the street toward their house. Emma let out a groan of dismay as she recognized the unmarked police car parked in front of her home.

Lieutenant Atkins and Detective Marbery got out of the car, slamming the doors. David sighed, pulled in the driveway, and came around to help Emma out of the front seat.

“We need to talk to you both,” said Joan Atkins without preamble. “Let’s go inside.”

“Of course,” said Emma.

David said nothing but led the way up the walk and opened the door. Emma offered them a seat in the living room. Joan refused for both of them.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Emma as she took a seat. Joan shook her head.

“What is it now, Detective?” said David.

“Several things. Number one, Mr. Devlin’s alibi checked out. He is no longer a suspect either for the attack on your wife in the Pine Barrens nor the attack at the train station,” said Joan bluntly.

“What?” David cried. “You let him go? You saw what he did to me. What he tried to do to Emma.”

“He’s still under arrest for the sexual assault of his daughter. But he is no longer a suspect in the attack on you, Dr. Webster.”

“Is there any question about his alibi…?” Emma asked.

“None at all,” said Joan. “It wasn’t Devlin.”

Emma looked up at David from where she sat. David was raking his hand through his hair.

“That’s not everything. Acting on a missing persons report filed by her place of employment, we began a search for Lizette Slocum, the nurse whom your stepfather—”

“I know,” said Emma. “Have you found her?”

“Yes, we found her,” said Joan grimly. “We found her dead, stuffed in the trunk of her car, which was left at the bus station.”

“Oh my God,” Emma said as she felt her stomach start to churn.

“Jesus,” said David. He came and sat down close to Emma, absently kneading her hand.

“We’re not yet sure how she died. We’re waiting for the coroner’s report. But we do know that Lizette Slocum was last seen alive right here in this house, taking care of you, Dr. Webster. We are theorizing now that the person who tried to kill you came here to attack you and found Lizette instead. I’d like to know where you were at the time she disappeared.”

“I went downtown,” Emma said. “When I came back, she was gone…I thought she left because I…kind of…sneaked out without telling her.” Emma suddenly remembered the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign that had been ripped off her door. It wasn’t the nurse who tore it from the door, she thought. It was someone who had come to the door, expecting to find her asleep in there, and was furious to find her gone. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think someone else was here.” She explained about the sign.