Shadow of Doubt (14 page)

My mom was five days into a trial that she said would last at least a couple of weeks, which meant that she was putting in long hours reviewing testimony and preparing what she was going to say. She spoke to Ted every day and seemed to think everything was going well.

The school play was into rehearsals.

“Has everyone who's going on the trip handed in their signed permission forms?” Ms. Denholm said after rehearsal on Friday. She had arranged for the cast and crew of the school play to take a behind-the-scenes tour of a local theater, after which we were going to watch a dress rehearsal. I had signed up. So had Billy. So had Keisha Minotte. And therefore so had Morgan. She kept close to Billy whenever he was anywhere near Keisha or Ms. Denholm.

That day, after rehearsal, Ted was waiting to pick up Ms. Denholm. I was in the main entrance, almost at the double doors. I looked out and saw her get into Ted's car. She leaned over to him and kissed him on the cheek before they drove away. I shouldered my backpack and headed for the bus stop across the street.

I didn't see him until I was on the bus. Mikhail Mornov. Even then, I wouldn't have spotted him if I hadn't looked out the rear window. He was standing near a hedge that ran along one side of the school, looking back at the main door of the school. I thought he must be waiting for Ms. Denholm. But if he'd been standing there when I left the school, he would have seen her with Ted. Then I saw him raise his hand, as if he were greeting someone. But who?

The bus turned the corner. The school disappeared.

T

he day at the theater was fascinating. I'd had no idea how much activity there was behind the scenes. Everyone had a great time—well, except maybe Morgan, who got annoyed when Keisha settled in on one side of Billy to watch the dress rehearsal. Morgan looped her arm possessively through Billy's as soon as the curtain went down and announced that she was treating him to dinner at his favorite vegan restaurant. Billy beamed at her. For a beanpole, he's almost always hungry.

“What about you. Robyn? Do you have plans for dinner?” Ms. Denholm said.

“Well, no.”

“I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me—not as your teacher, but as Ted's daughter. I gather that he and your mother are, well . . . Ted speaks very highly of her. From what he says, we have a good chance of being related one day. Maybe we should get to know each other. What do you say?”

What
could
I say?

“I do a pretty good spinach soufflé,” she said a little later, as she unlocked the door to her apartment. “And a decent salad with a boiled dressing—one of my mother's recipes.”

“I've heard soufflés were hard to make,” I said.

“Not if you know what you're doing. I'll show you. I'll make some tea to have while we work.”

She handed me an apron and put on the kettle. It wasn't long before she was whisking up a salad dressing.

“We'll need six eggs for the soufflé,” she said.

I checked the fridge.

“You only have four.”

“Oh no.” She thought for a moment. “Do me a favor, Robyn? Run across the hall and ask Nat for some.”

She wanted
me
to go and ask her neighbor for eggs?

Ms. Denholm must have sensed my hesitation.

“Don't worry,” she said, stirring the dressing. “She doesn't bite.”

“It's not that. It's just that, well, I don't know her.”

Ms. Denholm laughed. “Of course you do,” she said. “It's Nat. Natalie Rachlis. The art teacher. She lives across the hall.”

I knew that Ms. Denholm and Ms. Rachlis were friendly at school, but I hadn't known that they lived in the same place. Then I remembered the day that Ted and Mikhail Mornov had got into that fight. I'd seen Ms. Rachlis nearby.

I crossed the hall and rapped on the door to the rear apartment. An eye clouded the peephole. A moment later the door opened.

“Robyn,” Ms. Rachlis said. “Melissa said she was inviting you over. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Denholm was wondering if she could borrow two eggs.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

The layout of Ms. Rachlis's apartment was similar to Ms. Denholm's, but Ms. Rachlis's place wasn't nearly as nice. Clothes and papers were strewn all over the living-room furniture. A table in one corner of the kitchen was heaped with paints and paper, canvases and brushes. A computer sat at one end of it, with a printer on the floor below. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink. Ms. Rachlis's feet even made a crunching sound as she walked across the dirty floor toward the refrigerator. She rooted around inside.

“I know I have some eggs in here somewhere,” she said. She pulled out a jar of pickles, a container of milk, another of yogurt, some mustard, some cheese. “Ah,” she said triumphantly. “Here they are.” She produced an egg carton. I wondered how long it had been in there.

Her telephone rang. She went over and looked at it.

“Unlisted number,” she said. “The machine can get it.”

Sure enough, after three rings her voice mail beeped on and we listened to the prerecorded voice of a man advertising a carpet-cleaning service.

I couldn't help thinking that maybe she should accept his offer.

She handed me the eggs. I was thanking her when something started thumping on the floor beneath my feet. I glanced at Ms. Rachlis, who rolled her eyes.

“Mrs. Wyman,” she said. She grabbed a set of keys from her messy kitchen table and headed for the door. I followed her and almost tripped on a baseball bat lying in her hall. She scooped it up and propped it beside the door. “A girl needs protection in the big city,” she said.

Just then Ms. Denholm appeared in the hall, holding a wooden spoon.

“Oh,” she said when she saw Ms. Rachlis. “I was just going downstairs to see what she wanted.”

“I'll take care of it,” Ms. Rachlis said. “You can get the next one.”

“Good luck,” Ms. Denholm said. “I hope that whatever she's looking for this time doesn't turn out to be something she gave away ten years ago.”

Ms. Rachlis rolled her eyes again. Ms. Denholm just laughed. “One time the two of us spent a whole evening looking for...what was it, Nat?”

“A porcelain bullfighter that she said she bought in Spain before the Second World War.”

“That's it,” Ms. Denholm said. “We looked everywhere, but we couldn't find it. Finally Mrs. Wyman called her son, who lives out west. It turned out that she had given the bullfighter to one of her nieces ten years ago. Her son sent us each a basket of fruit after that. He said he appreciates everything we do.”

“Translation: he doesn't want us to leave because it might not be so easy to find such accommodating tenants to replace us,” Ms. Rachlis said.

. . .

We ate the soufflé and salad, which were as delicious as Ms. Denholm had promised, and chatted about English and drama and school—and Ted.

“Do you think they're really going to get married?” Ms. Denholm said.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “But he's a great guy, and I know my mom really likes him. So do I.”

We were cleaning up the dishes when the phone rang.

Ms. Denholm answered it. I didn't pay any attention until I heard her say, “Stop calling me! Stop calling me!” in a shrill and panicked voice.

I spun around to look at her. Her face was paper-white. She was still holding the receiver, but her hand had dropped to her side.

“Ms. Denholm?” I said.

“It was him,” she said. “But how did he get through to me? My number is unlisted.”

I wondered if my father would still doubt her claims of being stalked if he could see the look on her face.

“Are you okay?” I said.

She stared at me.

“Do you want me to call the police?”

She shook her head slowly.

“How about if I call Ted?” I said. “Maybe he could—” I stopped abruptly when I heard footsteps in the hall. Ms. Denholm froze. Someone knocked on the door. I tiptoed over and looked out through the peephole.

“It's Ms. Rachlis.”

Ms. Denholm nodded feebly, and I unlocked the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ms. Rachlis said, “but
I'm
out of coffee and I have a long night of marking ahead of me. I was wondering if I could borrow—” She took in the expression on Ms. Denholm's face. “Melissa, what's wrong? What happened?”

“The phone,” Ms. Denholm said. “He called.”

“Who called?”

“Mikhail. He got my number somehow and he called.”

Ms. Rachlis's face clouded. She glanced at me.

“I was just going to call her father,” I said. “He'll know what to do.”

“Good idea,” Ms. Rachlis said. She got Ms. Denholm to sit down while I phoned Ted.

“What did he say to her?” he said after I'd explained the situation.

“I don't know.”

“Tell her I'll be right there. And Robyn? Tell her to keep the door locked.”

Because it was worth a try, I dialed *-6-9 to see if I could find out the last number that had called. Instead, I got the same recorded message I got when I'd tried to return Nick's call. Whoever had just called Ms. Denholm had used a pay phone.

. . .

Ms. Rachlis had succeeded in calming Ms. Denholm down a little by the time Ted got to her place. But Ted was jittery.

“Did you call the police?” he said.

Ms. Denholm shook her head.

“They won't do anything,” she said. “He didn't break any law. He didn't even say anything. He hardly ever says anything.”

Ted glanced at me. I don't think I imagined the fleeting look of doubt in his eyes.

“Are you sure it was him?” he said. “Maybe it was a wrong number.”

Ms. Denholm shook her head. “It wasn't a wrong number, it was Mikhail. I know it was. He wanted to let me know that he has my number. No matter how many times I change it, he always finds out.”

“Pack a bag,” Ted said. “You're staying with me until this is settled.”

“I couldn't do that,” Ms. Denholm said.

“Melissa, I insist. This man knows where you work. He knows where you live. Now he knows your phone number. Don't tell me you feel comfortable with that.”

“You should go, Melissa,” Ms. Rachlis said. “You'll be safe.”

Ms. Denholm didn't answer.

“Pack a bag,” Ted said, his voice gentle now. “I'm taking you to my place, and that's final. I have plenty of room. And an unlisted number.”

“
I
have an unlisted number,” Ms. Denholm said.

“Melissa, I live in a secure building,” Ted said. “There's a guard on duty twenty-four hours a day and video surveillance at all the entrances. Natalie is right. You'll be safe there. We'll figure out what to do. I promise.”

“But my car...” She had rented one while she waited for the final insurance settlement.

“You don't need your car.”

“How will I get to school and back without it?”

“I'll drive you until we get this all cleared up.”

But she insisted, and finally Ted relented. “I'll take you to my place in my car now,” he said. “Once I know you're safe, I'll take a cab back here and pick up yours. Okay?”

Ms. Denholm nodded. She went into the bedroom to gather her things. Ted turned to me and handed me his car keys.

“I'm parked around the back, Robyn. Why don't you wait in my car? We'll drop you at the bus on the way.”

I knew he wanted to talk to Ms. Denholm alone, so I agreed. As soon as I got into Ted's car I checked the glove compartment. The gun was gone.

I

opened my locker at lunchtime and took out the little gift box that I had found tied to my locker door that morning. It contained a heart-shaped key chain. The enameled heart was decorated with—what else?—forget-me-nots. I showed it to Morgan. She eyed it critically until I said, “It's from Ben.” Then she broke into a smile.