The Dead Place (11 page)

“I wasn’t spying, I just happened to see some things.”

“Whatever.” Grace headed out of the kitchen, and this time it was Kate who followed.

“So you haven’t seen anything?” She pressed as Grace sat down at the piano.

“No, Mom, I have a life.” She sifted through sheet music ignoring her mother.

Her parents’ generation would have slapped a kid for a remark like that. Kate settled for closing the piano lid, narrowly missing Grace’s fingers. “You have homework to do first.”

“I know.” The bad seed drew the word out as if only an idiot would have stated something so obvious. She stomped into the front hall, retrieving her backpack from where she’d flung it. Kate followed her. She caught Grace’s arm as her daughter started up the stairs.

“Why are you so unhappy?” As soon as Kate asked the question, she knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Grace stiffened at her touch, but she didn’t yell as Kate expected. She just gave her mother a nasty smile and said, “I don’t know, Mom. Why are
you
?”

Kate didn’t know how to answer. She let go and Grace ran up the stairs. The slam of her bedroom door was followed a minute later by the muffled sound of some indie rock band.

Kate retreated to the kitchen to clean up. How did she end up like this with Grace? Somehow, every question she asked circled around to trap her. When had the innocence vanished? Was it her imagination, or had everything changed for Grace, too, when Kate was assaulted? Raped. Ian was right; she didn’t like the word and still stumbled over it. For months it had been like a scar she was unable to look at squarely.

Her old therapist would have said she was taking too much responsibility for Grace’s behavior. Grace was going through puberty, that’s what was wrong with her, and maybe it had hit a little harder last year after what happened to her mother, but Kate was back on track now. She would be observant, would watch her daughter and protect her.

She poured a fresh mug of coffee and sat down to read one more time the article that accompanied the photos. The general tone was that things like this just didn’t happen in Wickfield. There was also the suggestion that since Lily Slocum came from outside of Wickfield, maybe an outsider had committed the crime.

The story continued on page three with lots of filler about community reaction complete with quotes from “outraged” townspeople. It reminded Kate of the coverage of sporting events where reporters asked sweaty athletes very predictable questions about how it felt to win the championship game, eliciting standard responses like “unbelievable.” It wasn’t much of a surprise to discover that people felt outraged about a murder in their community. She skimmed over this part and slowed again when she got to a section about the victim.

A painting was taking shape in her head. It had been a long time since that had happened. She saw the interplay of colors, white against black. A pale expanse of naked skin, swathed in an undulating black ribbon. It would be Lily Slocum, but more than Lily. All women. All victims.

She could feel the desire again, the need to feel the texture of paint on canvas. She mentally selected the brushes she’d use, bristle to start with and sable for the details.

As she tossed the paper onto the recycling bin, she saw the paper underneath with the photo of Lily reclining on the chaise lounge. It was a beautiful picture, the figure seeming to float within the clusters of delicate flowers arranged about her, but the way she was dressed, in that high-necked white gown, looked so eerily similar to Terrence Simnic’s dolls.

She stared at it for several minutes before jotting down the antique store’s name. She wanted to see the real photo, not a fuzzy reproduction, but the police probably wouldn’t allow that. Talking to someone who’d seen the actual photo was the next best thing. Was it open on Saturdays? Kate thought she’d find out.

Terrence Simnic was mowing his backyard, wearing an overly large gray T-shirt and a pair of navy blue Bermuda shorts. Sweat stains circled the armpits of the shirt. He was using a push mower, snaking it slowly back and forth across the dead-looking grass with his long, hairy arms.

She thought of his dining room filled with waxy, vacant-eyed dolls, and wanted to ask him what he’d been doing in his basement at three in the morning. He suddenly stopped mowing and looked across at Kate. It was as if he could tell what she was thinking. Kate hurried to her car, avoiding his gaze.

As she drove toward the center of town, Kate called home on her cell phone. After four rings, Grace answered the phone with a sulky “Hello?”

“It’s Mom. Listen, double-check that the doors are locked, okay.”

The put-upon sigh was particularly breathy through the phone. “I’m sure you already triple-checked.”

“Just do it, Grace. I’ll hold on.”

Kate heard the squeak of bed springs, and then the sound of Grace clomping down the stairs.

“The front door’s locked, big surprise.”

“Good, go check the back.”

Grace mumbled under her breath what might have been a curse, but Kate chose to ignore it. Clomp, clomp, clomp down the hall to the kitchen.

Suddenly Grace screamed, “Help! He’s here!”

Kate slammed on the brakes and the car behind her slammed on its horn. “What? Grace!”

Silence. Kate jerked the car over to the side of the road amidst a squeal of brakes and horns. “Grace? Grace!”

A sudden peal of laughter left her confused, and then filled with rage. “That’s not funny, Grace!”

“C’mon, Mom, I was just kidding!”

“Not funny at all.”

The antique store was open for business, but there wasn’t any. The owner—Kate recognized her from the paper—perched on a stool behind the counter, flipping through what looked like a pile of receipts. She wore a turquoise and white caftan that looked several sizes too large, oversized turquoise bangles and hoop earrings, and a pair of huge white-framed glasses. The effect was of a child dressed up in her mother’s clothes, only judging by the look of this woman, her mother, if alive, would be well over a hundred.

“Good morning.” Her voice was low and melodious and at odds with her appearance. She hopped lightly down from the stool and came around the counter with a big smile. The ends of a turquoise scarf tied around her beehive of shiny black hair trailed behind her like small sails. “I’m Abigail Thorney. Welcome to Thorney Antiques Emporium. May I help you find something?”

“Yes, actually, I’m looking for this.” Kate held out the newspaper and pointed to the photo of Lily Slocum.

Abigail Thorney jerked back as if the paper could bite. “I don’t have it anymore, the police do.”

“But you found it in your store?”

The older woman played nervously with her glasses. “An unfortunate mistake.”

“Do you have any idea how it came to be here?”

Mrs. Thorney’s rheumy-looking eyes narrowed. “Are you a detective?”

“No, I’m not, I’m just interested—” Kate didn’t know whether to explain why she wanted to see the photo.

“I already told the police everything I know, but do you think they accept that? They’ve come back twice to ask questions. I think they think I took that photo.” Her voice rose on the end of that as if the very idea were outrageous. “If you’re not with the police, who are you?”

“I’m Kate Corbin.”

“The artist?”

It was Kate’s turn to veer back, surprised. “Yes, that’s right. How did you—”

But the old woman was waving a hand. “Wait right there. Just a minute.” She disappeared behind the counter, and Kate heard clattering and muttering as things were moved.

A minute later, Mrs. Thorney emerged, turquoise scarf askew, patting her hair with one hand, though it didn’t look as if a single strand had moved. In her other hand she waved a brochure.

“Here, see.” She thrust it under Kate’s nose. It was from a show held more than three years ago. Kate’s work had been featured alongside two other friends, all artists from the city, at a gallery in Tribeca.

“You look different,” Mrs. Thorney said, jerking the corner of the brochure down to compare Kate with the glossy and glamorous headshot.

Kate blushed. “Well, I’m sure it’s airbrushed.”

Mrs. Thorney shook her head. “No, I mean you look thinner.”

Kate laughed. “You’re my new best friend.”

“That was a good show. I love your work and so did my late husband.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

The old woman tucked the brochure under her arm. “So why do you want to see that photo?”

It was easier to explain now. Kate talked about seeing the article, about the inspiration for the painting.

“Was the picture really of Lily Slocum?”

“So the police said. Her friend could tell right away. I didn’t know. I still don’t know how it ended up in the window.”

“How do you get the antiques?”

“Some things I buy in lots, others are donated. Some people sell to me directly.”

“But you don’t remember where you got the photo?” Kate kept seeing Terrence Simnic fussing over the doll. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine him with a camera in his hand.

Mrs. Thorney shook her head. “I don’t even know when it came in.”

“So the police have the photo?”

“Yes, but you could probably get a look at it. I’m sure if you explain that you’re an artist and why you want to see it, they’d probably let you take a look at it.”

Yeah, that would probably go over really well. Kate thanked her and headed for the door, Mrs. Thorney following.

“Are you going to have another show soon?”

Kate thought of Jerry Virgoli. “Possibly at the gallery in town.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Mrs. Thorney’s small hands clapped together with a surprisingly strong sound. A spray of artificial flowers hanging over the door reminded Kate of her neighbor.

“Do you know a man named Terrence Simnic?”

“The owner of Bouquet? Of course. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, he’s my neighbor.”

Mrs. Thorney smiled. “This is a small town, Ms. Corbin.”

“Kate, please.”

The old woman inclined her head. “Kate. This is a small town, everybody knows everybody.”

“Really? Do you know him well?”

“No, not well at all. He’s what I think one would call a loner. Keeps to himself and always has done.”

“Does he shop here?”

Mrs. Thorney considered. “Yes, but not very often. He collects dolls—his mother did, I think, and he kept it up—and I don’t have a large collection of those, but sometimes I get clothes and things from that period.”

“Has he come in recently?”

“Actually, he was here just a few weeks back. Why do you ask?”

The Wickfield police station didn’t look at all like Kate pictured. She’d assumed that it would be in some historic stone building, much like the old courthouse with its Doric columns that sat in the center of the town square, or the even older bank, with its elaborately carved pilasters that took up the space of two storefronts on Penton. But the Wickfield Police had a new, practically brand-new, several-story brick building that sat at the end of Aiken Avenue and wrapped around onto Poplar Street. While it lacked the grandeur of the other buildings, it was still intimidating.

Kate parked across the street, but didn’t get out of the car. What could she do? Go in there and accuse her neighbor of murder? With what evidence? I’d like to accuse my neighbor of murder because he collects dolls that look like a photo of the victim, he shops at the antique shop where the victim’s photo was found, he owns a flower shop and the photo had lots of flowers in it, I saw him with women’s clothing but he lives alone, and he was doing something in his basement at three in the morning.

Ian had laughed when she’d told him. Could the police possibly have a different reaction? Kate couldn’t get out of the car. Even if they didn’t laugh, she didn’t think she could face being back in a station. It brought back too many memories of the hours she’d spent in the station in Brooklyn. They’d been kind, but the scrutiny had been unpleasant. What time had she gotten to her studio? Did she walk the same way every day? Was she sure she’d locked the door when she left? Even with Ian at her side, it had been unpleasant, and she was afraid of reliving it just by walking through the doors of Wickfield’s headquarters.

At the end of the newspaper article was a number for a hotline the Wickfield police had set up for any information about the crime. A hotline was anonymous. Kate pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

“Wickfield Police Hotline.” The female voice sounded bored. Kate hadn’t expected that.

“I have a name. I don’t know if you’ve checked this guy, but I think maybe he had something to do with Lily Slocum’s murder.”

“What’s the name, ma’am?”

“I’m not sure he’s the one—”

“I understand that, but we need the name.”

“Terrence Simnic.”

The woman checked the spelling and that was it. Kate hung up feeling strangely let down. That was all. A name added to the list. Probably nothing would happen with it.