Red Herring (3 page)

Lester chuckled briefly. “Right; shoulda known. What else you got there?”

Joe was not enthusiastic. “Standard stuff—phone records, appointment calendars, answering machine, family interviews, neighborhood canvass—already under way—coworkers, personal files and records,
whatever forensics might find and the ME coughs up. If precedent is any indicator, this poor woman pissed off somebody in her life.”

“Single woman, nice-looking,” Spinney mused. “You think she was passed along from father to son with the rest of the business?”

“Maybe,” Joe agreed. “Looked like she was a photographer who liked to travel. Her mom’s nurse claims she and Dory were bosom buddies.”

“You believe that?”

“She does; she must have her reasons.”

Spinney paused to think. “They find any tracks anywhere?”

Joe shook his head. “Only belonging to the neighbor who saw her through the window and called us.” He suddenly added a note to his list.

“What?” Lester was watching him.

“Her doc,” he said. “Probably nothing. He claims he hasn’t seen her in ten months. Can’t hurt to drop by, though.”

“Should we go through her photographs?” Lester asked.

“Sure. Starting with whatever’s still in the camera.”

Now they were both silent.

“It’s not looking really good, is it?”

Joe cast him a look. “We haven’t even started. Could be the first person we interview bursts into tears and fesses up. It happens.”

“But your gut’s saying not this time, right?”

Joe took in a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Not this time.”

Doreen Ferenc’s mother was named Margaret Agostini, or Maggie—at least by the nursing-home staff in Bellows Falls. Joe found her sitting by a bay window in the common room on the second floor of
the century-old building, staring out at a small cluster of children throwing snowballs.

Joe had been met at the front door by Brenda Small, the nurse interviewed earlier on the phone, who’d hustled him upstairs, fawning and cooing and clucking about “the tragedy.” It was only upon seeing the victim’s mother staring out that window, however, that he’d clued in on one possible reason behind the nurse’s focused attentions.

He stopped at the door and gently steered her back into the hallway by the upper arm.

She gave him a surprised look. “What’s wrong?”

He played a reliable card. “Did I say anything was wrong?”

She blinked and wet her lips, broadcasting her discomfort. “No.”

He sighed. “Brenda, it’s over and done with now, so you can stop worrying. There won’t be any repercussions. I just need to know: You already told her about Doreen, didn’t you?”

Brenda’s eyes widened, preparing him for the standard array of excuses he’d heard from others in similar circumstances. Her choice, however, was at least unique.

“She already knew,” Brenda explained in a high whisper. “I could see it in her eyes. So sad. It would’ve been cruel not to share that pain.”

She opened her mouth to continue, but Joe stopped her. “That’s enough for the moment, Brenda. Thank you. Just leave us alone for a few minutes, okay? I’ll wrap things up quickly and then you and I can talk. Deal?”

Brenda looked confused. “Okay.”

Joe left her and softly approached the old woman, moving a low stool to the side of her chair and settling down next to her.

“Hi, Mrs. Agostini. My name’s Joe. I’m a police officer, and I am so sorry to be meeting under these circumstances.”

He left it there for a moment, gauging his audience. She acted as if he hadn’t even entered the room.

He reached out and gently touched her forearm. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

It was never much of a one-liner, but it occasionally opened a minor portal.

Not this time.

“Mrs. Agostini,” he tried again, “I would like to find out what happened to Doreen, and I sure could use your help. You two were so close. She may have told you something that would point me in the right direction, even if it didn’t sound like much to you.”

Still nothing. Joe sat there for a moment longer, and then finally reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and left it in the old woman’s lap, explaining, “That’s how to reach me when you’re ready, Mrs. Agostini. I know it’s tough right now, so feel free to call, night or day.”

He patted her arm again and got up, half hoping for one last chance. But she hadn’t moved a muscle, and didn’t start now.

He found Brenda Small still lingering in the hallway.

“Is she okay?”

“I doubt it,” he told her. “Is there someplace you and I could chat?”

“Me?”

Joe considered a suitable comeback, as usual floating what Willy might say in the back of his mind, before merely saying, “Sure, why not? You and Doreen were close, right?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, yes.” She crossed her fingers. “Like that.”

She led the way down the dark hallway, still wood-paneled and stately from when it was built as a private home a century earlier, and turned into a small break room just beyond the back staircase.

There, she settled fussily into a chair at the table, folded her hands before her, and gave him her full attention.

He closed the door and sat opposite her. “Just so I can get a handle on Mrs. Agostini’s state of mind,” he began gently, “could you tell me how you broke the news of her daughter’s death?”

Her eyes grew sad for Doreen’s mom. “It’s like I told you. I didn’t need to tell her. She knew. Like when a pet knows his master has died, you know?”

He knew of the folklore; he was less sure about comparing a dog and its master to this mother and daughter. Unless Brenda Small was subtly heading somewhere.

“So she said something?”

“It wasn’t necessary. I saved her the heartbreak. I just wrapped my arms around her and said that it was all right, that Doreen had gone straight to Heaven and hadn’t suffered at all, and that everybody has to die sooner or later, even if it seems unfair sometimes. That God’s Plan was always right, no matter how mysterious.”

Joe paused before opening his mouth, mostly to stifle his immediate reaction. “How did she take it?”

Brenda said simply, “She had to soak it in, didn’t she?”

“That’s what she’s still doing? Soaking it in?”

“Sure.”

He pursed his lips. “She hasn’t said a word?”

“Not out loud. I’m sure she’s talking with the Lord, though, seeking his comfort and guidance.”

Joe nodded. “Understandable. She’s a religious person?”

Brenda laughed. “Oh, no. Not Maggie. She takes a tough line there, but I knew in her heart she didn’t believe what she was saying. That’s why I felt okay about bending your little rule and sharing her
grief with her. I know one of God’s chosen when I see them, and Maggie definitely fits the bill.”

Joe was starting to sympathize with Maggie’s choice to become catatonic. “What was she like normally, from day to day? Like when her daughter came to visit?”

“The life of the party. Laughing and making jokes. Sometimes I thought the two of them were like kids in a tree house, they had so much fun together.”

“And you and Doreen?” he asked. “What kinds of things did you talk about?”

“Well, of course, her mother was Dory’s first priority,” Brenda explained. “So she wanted to make absolutely sure I knew how important that was to her.”

“She paid you,” Joe stated flatly, making it sound like the most natural and sisterly of acts.

Brenda flushed slightly and cast her gaze upon the tabletop. “Well, she did help me sometimes in taking extra care of Maggie.”

Joe began to sense an inkling of revenge in Brenda’s delivery of bad news this morning.

“I’m just trying to confirm something I heard earlier,” he lied. “That Doreen might’ve been a little stuck up sometimes. Not that she was a bad person, of course. But maybe a bit superior?”

Brenda smiled her forgiveness. “People can’t be blamed for the way they were brought up,” she said.

“That’s very nice of you,” Joe commented, feeling on more solid ground. “Most folks would’ve taken offense.”

“That’s not my way.”

I bet, he thought. “Still,” he suggested, “it’s like what they say about
apples not falling far from the tree. I guess Maggie had her moments when she could be a handful.”

Brenda rolled her eyes, becoming ever more comfortable with this empathetic listener. “You can say that again. I sometimes felt like I was in one of those old movies, where the queen pushes all her servants around. And Dory and Maggie together were like double that.”

She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “The two of them ganged up on me once, asking me what all Maggie’s medicines were for, like I was trying to poison her or something.”

“Something had gone wrong?” Joe asked.

She sat back and dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand. “Probably something she ate. She had diarrhea and felt sick. But of course, it had to be me and how I was doing her meds.”

“Was it?” he asked, figuring he had nothing to lose.

To his astonishment, she became angry. “It wasn’t my fault. They work us too hard in here.”

“How long ago was this?” he followed up.

“About six months. Not that they ever let it go. Doreen was always nagging—did I do this, did I do that? Like I was incompetent or something.”

“And she stopped paying you extra?” Joe suggested.

She looked at him wide-eyed. “Why would she do that?”

He scratched his forehead and decided to move on. “Brenda, did you ever get any feeling for Doreen’s personal life? Boyfriends? Problems with other people? Anything at all?”

“She used to travel before Maggie came here,” she volunteered slowly. “It sounded like she always went alone, though, which I thought was a little strange. Sounds even stranger now.”

So much for being bosom buddies, Joe thought. “And how long has Maggie been here?”

“Three years.”

“With Doreen coming every day?”

“Like clockwork, from day one. I thought it was sweet at first, before I found out what they were like.”

“Did they treat everyone here like they did you?” Joe asked her, suddenly struck by a thought.

She looked disgusted. “Oh, noooo. Everybody thinks they walk on water around here. Doreen conned them good with all her doting on her mother.”

Joe watched her for a few seconds, absorbing the transformation from cheerful best buddy to resentful malcontent.

“Do you know where Doreen lived?” he asked quietly.

“I was never invited there, if that’s what you mean.”

“But you did know.”

“Sure, I knew. She even drew me a map, and always made sure I had her phone number on me. I was supposed to know the address in case I had to drive out there for some reason, like that would ever happen. That’s the kind of thing I was talking about. She actually thought that because she gave me a handout now and then, it bought her special favors. I have a lot of residents to care for here. They run me ragged as it is, without me doing extra service just because Queen Maggie develops a need in the middle of the night.”

Joe thought back, considering what he might have missed. “You said it sounded strange that Doreen went on her trips alone; actually, you said that it was even stranger now. What did you mean by that?”

Brenda looked nonplussed. “Well, she was raped, wasn’t she?”

Joe tried to suppress his surprise. “Did the officer who called you tell you that?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He was a jerk, if that’s all right to say. You’re one of the nice ones, but most cops are like him. No, one of her
neighbors called up right after to check on Maggie. I found out from her. They’re all pretty upset—no surprise.”

Joe suddenly studied her bland, flat face with new insight, a chilling thought evolving.

“Brenda,” he asked slowly. “You told that to Maggie, didn’t you? That her daughter had been raped?”

She became innocence personified. “Well, that’s what happened, isn’t it?”

He stared at her in silence for a moment, trying to imagine the moment, and the effect it must have had on the old lady.

“You really ended up hating them,” he murmured.

Her face closed down. “That would be un-Christian. I have never hated anyone in my whole life.”

A switch clicked in Joe’s head. He’d had enough of this woman. He could always return, and if he did, he’d be far better informed about all the players in this sadness.

He got to his feet, just controlling his anger. “Thank you, Brenda. You’ve told me a lot—all of it useful.”

“I do what I can,” she said. “If people don’t sacrifice a little for each other, what hope is there?”

Lyn Silva slid into the small house’s entryway quickly, snow from the trees outside dusting the shoulders of her coat. As she stamped her feet and brushed off her arms, a few flakes broke free and shimmered in the light from the lamp beside Joe’s easy chair. The weather had cleared and the forecast was calling for warmer temperatures tomorrow, but for the moment, it was still freezing, leaving all remnants of the freak storm in place.

“I thought you’d be in bed,” she exclaimed, crossing the living room to give him a kiss. Her lips were cold and the night air clung to her. It was after two in the morning. Lyn owned a bar in Brattleboro and worked several nights a week.

“I just got in a while ago myself,” he confessed. “We caught a murder in Westminster, up near Saxtons River. Been hard at it all day.”

She hung her coat on to a row of pegs opposite the door and pulled a face. “And in the middle of a snowstorm, of all days. I’m sorry. Was it bad?”

“Bad enough,” he said. “We don’t know who did it, which ruins the fun right off. It’s not snowing again, is it?”

“No,
no. It is beautiful, though. I always think I’ll get used to it, like fall foliage, but it sneaks up on me every time.”

“Well, you’re allowed to be a little surprised this time. Plus, you get a bonus—foliage is still in the trees.”

“I know,” she beamed. “That, I’d never seen before, even after a lifetime of living up here.”

She was younger than he, and originally from Gloucester, Massachusetts, where the ocean had a tempering effect on the winter weather. He doubted if even today they had snow in the trees down there. New Englanders could be snotty about their hardships—Vermonters, Mainers, and New Hampshirites were inclined to view southern New England as the Banana Belt.