The Dead Place (27 page)

Kate was actually driving down the road when she passed Laurence Beetleman coming in the other direction. Kate slid down in her seat and he sped by. She didn’t think he’d seen her.

She parked on the street that ran perpendicular to the Beetlemans’ and headed down the alley on foot. The snow in the drifts was up around her ankles now, and there was no way she’d be able to hide her footprints. She didn’t care. All she cared about was Grace, finding Grace, holding Grace. It seemed to her that she’d give up so much else, her reputation, her marriage, even her art, if only she could have her daughter back.

The gate into the Beetlemans’ yard was locked from the inside. Kate could see it through a slit in the wood, but she had no way of prying it open even if she could reach it. She’d have to go over the fence. It was approximately six feet high and made of wooden slats flush with each other and ending in squared-off triangle tips.

There were three trash cans standing in a row along one outside wall of the garage. Two of them were empty. Kate took one and upended it next to the fence and as close to the garage as possible so that Mrs. Beetleman wouldn’t see her.

She clambered on top of the can, balancing against the fence with one hand and using the other to haul the second empty can. She steadied herself and looked over the side into the yard. As she’d hoped, this section of fence was almost directly behind the studio and obscured from the house.

Hoisting the second trash can over the fence, Kate leaned over so far that the fence points dug into her stomach, then let the can drop. It sent up a little cloud of snow, rocking back and forth precariously before deciding to stay upended just as she’d planned. She managed to get one leg over the fence without scraping it against the top, before turning and bringing the second one over. Balancing with her gloved hands, she stretched her legs down as far as she could, searching for the safety of the upended can.

There was still a gap of a few inches, but her right toe could just brush the plastic, so she let go of the fence. A split-second free fall and then her right foot landed smack and square on the can, but her left foot hit the edge, couldn’t hold, and she toppled back, landing with a thump in the snow.

It knocked the air out of her. She breathed hard for a moment, blinking up at the gray sky, before cautiously wriggling her arms and legs. Everything seemed fine, so she got up, brushing off the snow, and looked around. She was just behind the studio and not visible from the house. She moved the trash can to make sure it was completely hidden, and cautiously peered around the side of the studio toward the house.

There was no movement in any of the windows. The single set of footprints she’d seen from the Beetlemans’ living room window was filling with snow. Clara Beetleman was somewhere in the house. Did she know her husband had gone?

Kate walked around the side of the studio closest to the fence line and the cover of trees, conscious of the quiet crunch of her footsteps in the snow.

There were curtained French doors on this side of the studio, and she felt something hard under her feet and knew that it must be a terrace. In warm weather, Dr. Beetleman would open these doors and step onto the terrace, lifting his large head up to the sun. Snow covered the terrace and piled against the edge of the closed doors. She tried the handle, but the doors were locked.

There was no way to gain entry from the front of the house without attracting attention. Even if Clara Beetleman didn’t see her, somebody else might and they’d probably call the police. No, this was the place where she had to get in and she didn’t know how.

She tried the handle again, tugging on it in a vain attempt to get the doors open. The wooden doors were flush with one another and she had no way of getting the latch open. Except by breaking a window.

The glass doors were divided by mullions into small windowpanes. All she had to do was break one of them. She searched the ground for something to use, and found a broken branch under a pine tree. It was thick enough that it would probably work. Would the noise of breaking glass be heard by the neighbors or even in the house? She didn’t think so, but just to be sure she took off her scarf and knotted it several times around the end of the branch.

She picked a pane closest to the door latch and gave a few experimental taps before ramming it as hard as she could against the glass. For a second, it was as if nothing had happened, but then hairline cracks spread out like a spider’s legs from the point of impact and the window shattered.

The challenges of fund-raising went on and on. Ian sighed as he sat down in his office chair and began the follow-up letter to the alumni he’d wooed that afternoon. With any luck, at least one of them would make a sizable donation to the arts center. He’d certainly sold the place to them. The public relations office had managed to finish glossy brochures showcasing the future center just in time for the meeting.

He wrote a paragraph laced liberally with phrases like “leaders in today’s global marketplace” and “the new philanthropists.” There were times when he felt like a complete phony, but if it helped build the center, then he didn’t care.

Mildred had told him that Kate stopped by. She’d left without leaving a message. He was ashamed to admit that he’d been relieved she hadn’t stayed. She probably wanted to talk with him about Grace again, but what more could they do?

He looked at the framed photo of Kate and his daughter that stood on his desk. Grace was laughing in the picture, Kate had her arms wrapped around her and a big smile on her face. Cape Cod in July, a warm sunny day with a perfect blue sky. It was just a year and a half ago, but it might as well have been a hundred. Had they really been happy then? It seemed that ever since Kate’s assault things had gone in a downward trajectory. It was as if they were under some unlucky star, but he knew that he had to admit his own culpability in the matter.

He got up from his desk and went to the window, looking out across campus. The last of the students were leaving for winter break, small clusters trudging through the snow toward cars and buses. He envied them. They got to leave. Back in September, he’d entertained so many fantasies about his family’s first Christmas in Wickfield.

He’d heard of a farm where people went to cut their own trees, and he’d envisioned a family outing, all three of them bundled up against the cold, with lots of laughter and good-natured arguing about which tree to pick. Grace always wanted a huge tree, and had tried unsuccessfully for years to convince them that seven-foot monsters could fit into their small apartment in the city. This year, for the first time, they could actually have one, but there was no point in getting one now. Not with Grace gone.

A knock at the door made him turn his head, surprised when it opened and Mildred bustled in followed by Dr. Beetleman.

“I’m sorry, Dean, but Dr. Beetleman insisted on seeing you immediately.”

“It’s okay, Mildred.” Ian crossed the room with his hand outstretched to the other man. “Laurence, how are you?”

Dr. Beetleman ignored his hand. His usually friendly face looked angry. “I thought the meeting was supposed to start at four.”

“What meeting?”

“The faculty meeting you scheduled this afternoon. I’ve been waiting in the conference room for twenty minutes. Did you cancel and forget to e-mail me?”

“I didn’t schedule a meeting,” Ian said. “I haven’t scheduled any meetings between now and Christmas. I assumed we’d have too many no-shows.”

“Then why did I receive an e-mail from you this afternoon scheduling an emergency meeting?”

“It couldn’t have been from me. I’ve been schmoozing with deep-pockets alumni all afternoon. I only just got back to campus.”

“It came from your e-mail address.”

“I’m telling you, Laurence, that I didn’t send it. Look I’ll show you.” He went behind his desk and brought up his mail program and looked at the “sent” column. He was stunned when he saw the message.

“I don’t understand, I didn’t write this.”

“Then your secretary perhaps?”

Mildred denied sending it. “Oh, no, it wasn’t me, but maybe—” She stopped short.

“Maybe what?” Ian said.

Mildred fiddled with her glasses chain, looking at Ian and then away. “I’m sure I’m wrong, but I suppose it’s possible.”

“What’s possible?” Ian felt a headache coming on.

“When Mrs. Corbin came, she wanted to wait in your office,” Mildred said in a low voice, looking at Ian, but stealing a little glance at Dr. Beetleman.

Ian flushed. “Why on earth would she send out an e-mail about a faculty meeting?”

His secretary nodded. “You’re right, of course, I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

Dr. Beetleman started to say something, but stopped short, his eyes widening for a moment as if he’d had some realization. He said gruffly, “I guess it must have been a mistake.”

Relieved, Ian said, “Yes, probably some glitch in the mail program. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, not your fault.”

“As long as you’re here, why don’t we discuss the adjustments you’ve made to the drawings?”

“I can’t.” Beetleman’s smile was strained. “I promised Clara I’d help with some Christmas decorating.”

Kate cleared enough glass to get her gloved hand through to unlock the door, but getting it open was a different matter. It was stuck, perhaps warped by the weather, and rattled in its frame before finally, grudgingly, inching open. She kicked it open further and stepped inside, her boots crunching on glass underfoot. She left the door ajar.

It was a large room, much bigger than it looked from the outside, about twenty feet by thirty feet and beautifully furnished. One wall was lined with bookcases, and there was a baby grand piano on one side of the room and a large wooden desk on the other. A long, chocolate leather sofa sat between them, with colorful throw pillows in bright shades that matched the Persian rug on the floor. The free space on the walls near the desk and the piano were hung with black and white photos of woodland scenes. Soaring trees, blankets of leaves, and in one that stopped Kate short, a dark ribbon of water running between rocks.

There were curtained windows on either side of the door that faced Beetleman’s house, and Kate was afraid to turn on a light switch for fear that it would be seen by Clara. She had to make do with muted light and she didn’t know precisely what to look for.

She started with the desk, moving quickly through each drawer, but there were nothing but files filled with compositions and notes about compositions, and other files filled with plans for the new arts center. Architectural drawings for the arts center were spread over the desk’s surface. There was nothing that linked Beetleman to the dead girls. Absolutely nothing.

She searched the entire room, scanning the bookcases and looking at all the small artifacts of a long career that they held—small baskets from Peru, jade from China, a samovar from Russia. Mementos of every sort, but not the ones she wanted. She even searched the piano and the tiny half bath tucked next to the bookcases. Nothing.

Feeling increasingly desperate, she searched under the sofa before collapsing on it in despair. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. What if she’d been wrong and he really had found the ring at an antiques shop? She stared blankly ahead, overwhelmed at the thought of being wrong, when something struck her as odd.

Sunlight through the open French door caught the faint outline of a footprint near the bookcase. The weird thing was that it was only half a footprint and the foot was pointing the wrong way. It was coming out of the wall.

Kate got off the sofa and walked slowly toward the bookcase. No, she wasn’t seeing things. Marked in dust on the hardwood floor was the unmistakable outline of the front half of a man’s shoe. It was flush with the bookcase, but how could someone have left a footprint under the bookcase?

Kate looked more closely at the bookcase. They were actually three bookcases mounted side by side. The footprint emerged from the right bookcase. Kate shifted a few books from one of the center shelves, but all she found was the back panel of the bookcase. There was nothing visible when she looked at the open side, but when she ran her fingers behind it, they bumped against something metal. It was thin, cylindrical, and about two inches high and there were three more just like it spaced along the wood. It wasn’t until she’d reached the third that she realized what they were: hinges.

Kate took hold of one of the fixed shelves and pulled. Some books fell over onto their sides, but the bookcase didn’t budge. She ran her hands over the opposite panel and found a small groove, large enough to be a handhold. She pulled on that, and stumbled backward as the bookcase suddenly swung out into the room.

Behind the bookcase was a door. In the place where a doorknob would be was a flat keyhole. There was no way to get past the door without the key. Kate sprang to the desk and searched all the drawers a second time without luck. She checked the drawers’ backs and bottoms. She took Beetleman’s silver letter opener and tried to slide it between the door and the jamb. The tip snapped off.

Frantic, she looked elsewhere in the room, even checking the window sills, the bathroom shelf, and behind the photographs, but she got nothing but dust-covered hands for her efforts. Keening with disappointment, she spun in circles, trying to find something that would work. She’d come to the conclusion that he was carrying the key when her eyes fell on the metronome.