Miss Me When I'm Gone (28 page)

“Okay,” I relented. “That sounds delicious.”

I stayed for only about fifteen minutes more. Dr. Skinner wasn’t likely to wake up, and even if he did, I wasn’t sure what I’d ask him now—or if I’d be as effective in drawing him out as Gretchen had been. Besides, Mrs. Skinner had given me more than enough to think about.

Stopped at a red light on my way back to the motel, I thought now about Mrs. Skinner’s description of Diane’s reaction to her father’s bad news on that morning. She had lost it, hitting him, screaming,
Why, Dad, why?
Mrs. Skinner clearly heard these words one way—the natural way one would hear them. Why did this happen to Shelly? Why couldn’t you save her?

But there was probably more than one way to hear those words. If one knew about Dr. Skinner and Shelly.

The person behind me laid on his horn. The light was green.

I hit the gas hard. I wanted to get back to the motel room, where I could look at Gretchen’s piece “Bedtime Story” again. I was certain now that the friend of Shelly’s in that piece was Diane, and I had a feeling their conversation was not about Frank, after all.

The conversation was really about money, and keeping certain information secret:

If he doesn’t stop, I’ll go to the police.

You think the police will believe you?

Doesn’t stop what? Seeing young female patients?

If this was what that conversation was really about, it would mean Diane first knew about Gretchen’s paternity in 1985. Or even before that. She knew Shelly was about to tell everyone, and was trying to keep her from doing so.

Chapter 57

I could tell the moment I stepped into the motel room that something wasn’t right. When I closed the heavy door, the breeze from outside followed me in. I whirled around. The front window was wide open. I remembered opening it a crack, but not that much.

All of the covers were pulled off the beds. At first, I thought the housekeeping service was there.

“Hello?” I called.

No response.

Both of my laptops—my Gretchen one and my new personal one—were gone. My overnight bag was gone, too, as was the pile of notebooks I’d left in the corner.

“Shit!” I whispered.

I rummaged through the covers, but knew it was no use. Everything was gone.

I dialed Sam’s number.

“Hey,” he said. “I was hoping you’d check in. I was trying to call you this morning.”

“Sam, someone’s broken into my motel room and taken everything.”

“What’re you talking about? Who?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure. But I have a feeling it was the same person who broke into our house. Sam, when our house was broken into, some of Gretchen’s notebooks were taken.”

“Jesus, Jamie. What’re you saying?”

“I didn’t mention it at first because I wasn’t sure, but I think whoever broke into our house was after Gretchen’s research, not our stuff.”

“Jamie, call the police. I don’t know who you’re talking about, but
call the police
! Are you sure the person isn’t still around?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Can you please call the police right now? Or go to the police department. Do it right now, will you? Promise me. Should I come up there? It’s in Emerson, New Hampshire, right? What did you say it was, a Motel 6 or something? I can look up the—”

“That’s not necessary,” I assured him. “I’m leaving for the police department right now.”

After I hung up, I took out my iPhone and looked up the address of the Emerson police station.

“That motel is not very secure,” the balding police officer informed me. “The staff should have advised you not to leave any valuables there. It could’ve been anyone.”

“True. But I don’t think it was
anyone.
This is
murder
evidence. I’m pretty sure it was someone who knew about Gretchen’s research.”

“But you didn’t see a license-plate number on this orange Honda?”

“No.”

“What made you notice that car out of all the cars in the hotel lot?”

“There actually weren’t very many cars,” I said, but then tried to explain about the similarity to the orange car Ruth Rowan had seen in the library lot.

The policeman, who had previously introduced himself as Officer Rice, folded his arms. “Ms. Madden, are you conducting your own investigation of Ms. Waters’s death?”

“I’m Gretchen’s literary executor,” I said. “The family gave me all of her manuscripts.”

“Literary executor?”

“Yes. I’m just doing what her family asked me to do. Organizing her writing. You know she was a writer, right?”

Officer Rice raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Ms. Madden.”

“So, I have . . . well,
had,
before it was stolen
. . .
the material she was writing right before she was killed.”

“As you may know,” Officer Rice said, “the state investigator has been looking at some recent drafts on her computer, talking to some of the people she’d encountered for her research on her mother’s death. We’re aware that she was involved in that.”

I nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I did know that. But she didn’t write exclusively on the computer. More often, she wrote her stuff out longhand. There was much more in her notebooks than on her computer. And either way, it looks like someone was eager to get at it. And I guess I should’ve been more careful.”

The officer sighed and put his chin in his palm, thinking.

“Do you have any thoughts on who, specifically, it might have been?”

“I have one idea,” I said, and then mentioned Diane.

“Diane DeShannon?” Officer Rice looked bemused. “Dr.
Skinner’s
daughter?”

With Emerson being such a small town, I wondered how well Officer Rice knew Diane. I wondered how well he knew all of the players in Gretchen’s book.

But he didn’t say anything more about Diane.

“Why don’t you sit tight for a minute?” he said instead.

“Okay.”

He was gone for a while.

When he finally came back into the room, he handed me a plastic cup full of water.

“Thought you might want this,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, shifting in my chair. I wished he’d skip the prenatal chivalry and focus on getting back Gretchen’s manuscripts, but I couldn’t tell how seriously he intended to take me.

“So,” he said. “We’ll be talking to Ms. DeShannon shortly, Ms. Madden, just to clear the air. And of course we’ll let you know if we find your things.”

“Okay.”

“But before you go . . . just a question, Ms. Madden. This additional material you say you have . . . we’d like to take a look.”

“I can’t let you look at it if someone else has it. That’s why I’m here, sir. But yes, of course.”

“All right, Ms. Madden.”

I sat in the police department parking lot for ten minutes and I didn’t see any officers leave the building or approach any of Emerson’s three police cruisers.

“Jesus,” I muttered, thumping my steering wheel with my palm. “Take your time, folks.”

Then I sat for a few more minutes, thinking about various conversations I’d had with or about Diane.

First, there was her certainty about seeing Frank’s car that morning in 1985, when Kevin was certain of the opposite. I thought, too, about her story about Shelly’s prescription blunder, which neither Dorothy nor Judy could remember and Phil Coleman wouldn’t confirm. And then there was this business about Diane being the only one Shelly had ever told about Frank hitting her. No one else seemed to have seen or heard this firsthand from Shelly, and Gretchen, based on her childhood observations, had never been able to fully believe it.

Also, in your days as a reporter, did you start to develop any skill for telling who is lying to you?

It took me a moment to realize that my gentle thumps at the wheel were turning into loud, painful wallops. I stopped so as not to upset Charlie, then glared at the police station’s white steps and glass doorway. Still no movement. I took out my phone and called Dorothy.

After I convinced her I was indeed Jamie Madden, and not someone selling something, I asked her where Diane lived.

Chapter 58

Diane’s house was a green raised ranch on the opposite side of town from her parents’ place. The yard looked modest but was impeccably kept. To the left of the house were two square garden boxes, already sprouting rows of lettuce and herbs. Beyond that were three woodpiles—one of thick logs, one of slimmer ones, and then a remarkably symmetrical pile of kindling.

And there was a little orange Honda parked in front.

I had to catch my breath at the sight of it. Then I struggled out of my car and made my way up the walk.

When I rang the doorbell, no one answered, and I heard no movement in the house. As I pressed it again, I smelled something funny—a burning smell.

As soon as the thought registered, I found myself flying off the front steps and onto the lawn, following the smell.

When I got to the backyard, I saw Diane standing over a trash barrel and heard a crackle. Over the top of the barrel, I could see flames.

When Diane saw me, her face twisted in surprise.

“Burning some brush,” she said with a little smile.

As I rushed at her, smoke flew in my face.

“I knew it,” I tried to shout through my coughs.

“Knew what?” she said softly, when I’d finished coughing. “It seems to me you know very little.”

I hesitated, uncertain how to interpret the smirk playing at her lips, the ferocity in her stare.

“I know Gretchen was your half sister,” I said. “I know that much. I know you didn’t want anyone to find out.”

Diane didn’t look surprised to hear me say this. She didn’t move.

“Did he do it to you, too?” I asked, because I’d wondered that on the way here. And because I thought it might disarm her. “Did your father abuse you?”

Diane made a guttural noise. “No. There was no
abuse.
It was all Shelly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Shelly would go after anyone. Shelly didn’t have any clue who was off-limits.”

“Shelly was thirteen years old,” I said softly.

“Seventeen,” Diane said, folding her arms. “You really
don’t
know so much. What does this have to do with you? Why don’t you focus on your own . . . business?”

She waved her hand at my middle as she said it. I ignored her words and the gesture.

“Shelly was thirteen when it started.”

“Who told you that? It’s not true. She was seventeen the time I caught them, and I would’ve known if it started any sooner. I would’ve
known.
She was seventeen and by then she’d already been a slut for years. Ask anyone. They’re all too polite to say it at first, because she died young. But they’ll all say it eventually. They were even willing to say it to her own daughter, weren’t they?”

“And what did
you
say to Gretchen?” I heard a car door slam, but kept talking. “When you confronted her in Willingham. When you realized she figured it all out? ‘Welcome to the family, sister’?”

Diane’s face turned a painful red. “I would never use the word ‘sister
.
’ And neither would she. Gretchen was all Shelly’s. She was just another Shelly. She didn’t have anything to do with us.”

I took a tiny step closer to Diane. “I’m pretty sure Gretchen felt the same way. About not having anything to do with you.”

Diane didn’t reply, but poked at the burning notebooks with her rake.

“So much so that I don’t know if she would’ve written about it. But Shelly . . . Shelly was going to say something, and your father was trying to stop her.”

“My father never would’ve been able to. I heard him try. He never knew how to handle her.
I
did, though. I knew her since we were little kids. I knew how she operated. I knew she would take the money and be quiet if someone explained it to her right.”

“But she didn’t,” I said, feeling my voice grow shrill. “She surprised you. Shelly really was getting herself together. She knew how to tell you no. She knew it was the right thing. You didn’t know how to handle
that
Shelly, did you?”

Diane shook her head. “There was no
new Shelly
. Shelly was never going to change. Not really. Everybody knew that.”

“Is that why you had to bludgeon her with an iron? Because you realized there was no other way to shut her up?”

The wind picked up and Diane began to cough violently. Still, I kept yelling.

“Gretchen was even worse. She might not have been wild about telling people who her father was, but she would’ve if she had to. If that meant helping people understand why her mother died. And who killed her. And once she knew one thing, she was pretty damn close to the other, wasn’t she? You didn’t have much choice but to push her, did you?”

Diane dropped her rake and stared at me.

“I just went to
talk
to her. That’s all. I didn’t even know there were stairs in that parking lot, or that she’d decide to go down to that convenience store.”

“No,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “But nonetheless, that was when you decided to get out of your car and talk to her. Take her by surprise in the dark. Maybe intimidate her a little bit. Just a bonus that she somehow ended up dead at the bottom of the stairs. Silent and bleeding, just like her mother. Eerie, huh, how they both ended up that way? Tell me, Diane—they looked so much alike, was the second one easier? Was it just like killing the same woman over again?”

Diane lunged at me. I shoved her aside and pushed over the barrel. Several notebooks—most of them already burning, but a few not—scattered across the grass. I began stomping on the ones that seemed salvageable. Diane grabbed me by the sweater and threw me to the ground. I felt a sharp pain in my wrist as it hit the ground, crushed under my own hip.

“Ms. Madden!” someone called to me.

I looked up.

Officer Rice and a female officer were approaching from the side of the house.

“Help!” I screamed. The female officer ran to me and knelt beside me.

“Not me! The notebooks!”

She looked confused. I pulled myself up and began stomping on the flames again.

The lady officer grabbed my hand and pulled me back. Despite her thin frame, she had a strong grip. My wrist ached as she did it.

“Don’t, honey,” she said. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She held me aside and stamped out the flames with her heavy black boots.

Officer Rice, meanwhile, was holding Diane gently by the elbow.

I stared at the torn, half-charred leftovers of Gretchen’s notebooks.

“Oh God,” I whimpered. “Gretchen . . .”

The female officer picked up one notebook, black on the cover but still intact inside.

“This one can be dried out and it’ll probably be fine. There are a few like that here.”

She said it with a sweetness I didn’t expect from someone in a uniform. But I stared at the notebooks that weren’t fine and started to cry.

Diane stared at me, her mouth straight and her eyes dull. She shook off Officer Rice’s grip.

“What use is it, anyway?” She was screaming now.

I couldn’t reply. I was sobbing too hard.

“What exactly is it you want to document? It was just hurtful. Hurtful stuff. Don’t you understand? What would it do to my mother? And what does it have to do with you?”

I watched her pick up one of the charred notebooks. She stared at it as Officer Rice stepped toward her again.

“Your mother . . . I’m not sure that’s who you ever cared about protecting,” I whispered.

Diane flung the notebook at me.

“What would you know about
protecting
?” she howled. “Just look at yourself.”

“Diane, I think we need to sit down and talk,” Officer Rice said, putting his hand on her shoulder and leading her away from the pile.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “You two ought to do that.”

I sat in the grass and touched the notebook Diane had just tossed down.

“They’re not all burned,” I whispered. “Not even half. It takes a while for the fire to eat all the way through . . .”

“Miss . . . um . . . Miss . . .” the female officer said.

“Madden,” Officer Rice supplied as he led Diane into the house.

“Miss Madden. Mrs. Madden,” the lady officer groped. “Can you get up?”

“Jamie,” I said. “Yes, I can get up. If you’ll let me take my friend’s things with me.”

“I’m not sure if you can, Ms. Madden,” the officer said.