“It’s strange that it was not sprayed with luminol. You’re in luck. I’ve got my car. If she’s willing, I could stop by and collect it.”
Liz provided Kinnaird with the address, phoned Laura to have her wait up for him, and decided it was time for her to get some rest. She changed into a long T-shirt and snuggled under the covers, recalling, as she dozed off, the Worcester book dealer’s words: “This woman flies from home but knows any loose ends she leaves will be seen as significant—if a woman gets the chance to look things over.”
The sound of snowplows scraping along the Massachusetts Turnpike awoke Liz more than once in the night. Each time, she turned over and returned to sleep until one pre-dawn noisemaker was just too much for Prudence, who dashed around the small abode in a frenzy, making Liz laugh herself awake. In her mad movements, the cat had skittered across DeZona’s photos, causing one to drop to the floor. Flipping her fireplace switch to fill the room with flickering light, Liz crossed the room to pick up the photo. Turning on her kitchen counter light and the stove burner under her kettle, she measured some coffee into a filter and took another look at the photo.
This one was a shot of the Johanssons’ living room. In it could be seen part of the book bearing an Arabic title. The kitchen crime scene had naturally become the focus of investigators’ and reporters’ attention. Had anyone taken a hard look at the living room, too?
The kettle whistled in concert with a scraping sound in her driveway. Sal Mione had arrived to plow away the last of the snowfall. Pulling on jeans and a sweater, Liz rushed to her front door.
Opening the door, she called out, “Got a minute?” to the plow driver.
“For you, of course!” he replied.
“I’ve got something for you,” Liz said. “Hold on, I’ll bring it out to you.”
Grabbing the plastic bag of PG Tips tea and chocolate digestive biscuits, she stepped into her boots and put on a coat before wading out into some nine inches of snow. Handing the package in through the plow driver’s rolled-down window, she saw copies of the World and Banner on the seat beside him.
“Some fire,” Sal Mione said. “Bloody shame,” he added, nodding at DeZona’s grim front-page photo. As Liz had expected, the Banner’s front page was entirely consumed with the fire story, headed “INFERNO” in bold caps.
The broadsheet World had room for more Page One articles. She could only see below the fold of the front page. It contained an article about the fire, which World editors had not chosen as their lead story; a photo of an exhausted-looking fire chief; and an article headed, “Blackboard Message Muddles Missing Mother Inquiry.”
“Don’t you get enough of the news?” Sal Mione said to Liz.
“Never! I’ve been reporting on that missing mom, so I’m interested in what the World reporter turned up.”
“It’s all yours. I’ve already read it,” Sal said, handing her the paper. “And thanks for the tea and biscuits. Much obliged.”
Back in her house, Liz read Nancy Knight’s coverage of the Johansson case. Apparently the World had put Mick Lichen on the fire story, handing Knight the Johansson assignment.
“Forensic evidence and a crime scene message leave investigators puzzled in the case of missing Newton mother, Ellen Johansson, 34.” Knight wrote. “‘We have to consider the possibility that Mrs. Johansson planned to leave home,’ said Newton police chief Anthony Warner yesterday.
“According to Medical Examiner Barney Williams, tests on blood found in the upscale kitchen reveal two people were injured there. And a message written on Johansson’s kitchen memo board suggests she was saying goodbye to her husband, Erik Johansson, 37, and eight-year-old daughter, Veronica.
“‘FORGET ME NOT,’ the message reads. Warner said the words, spelled out in chalk under a grocery list, are currently under examination by a handwriting expert.”
“I can’t believe she would walk out on Veronica,” Liz exclaimed aloud, making Prudence’s ears perk up. “There must be another explanation.”
Liz dug the crumpled Banner page out of her purse and smoothed it out on her kitchen counter next to DeZona’s photos. Under the “PINCH OF BLOOD” headline and Dick Manning’s byline, she read, “Newton cops can’t fathom why a well-heeled wife and mother would scrawl an exit line on her kitchen blackboard before leaving her family in the dark about her whereabouts. ‘Seems weird to me,’ said Newton police officer Dan Atwood, who was first on the scene after Ellen Johansson, 34, disappeared from the $640,000 home she shared with her husband Erik, 37, and the couple’s daughter Veronica, age 8.
“‘It’s hard to believe any perp forcing a woman from her home would wait for her to write a message to her hubby and kid,’ Atwood added.
“The three-word plea, ‘FORGET ME NOT,’ appeared at the bottom of a grocery list written on a blackboard in the Johanssons’ state-of-the-art kitchen where, two days ago, the couple’s third-grader came home from school to find flaked coconut and other baking ingredients splashed with blood on the Italian marble countertop.
“The missing woman’s husband, an environmental consultant, has been questioned several times by police. ‘If she wanted to leave us, why would she set up a baking project?’ the distraught husband reportedly asked police. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’”
Setting aside the Banner page, Liz realized Dick Manning had failed to contact the Newton police chief. He was also scooped by the World on the blood typing. No doubt he dropped the Johansson story like a hot potato when the fire broke out, knowing the blaze would have first priority in the eyes of Banner editors—particularly if the fire produced fatalities.
Liz turned to her phone to leave a message for DeZona and found the message light blinking. A call must have come in while she was outside delivering treats to the plow driver. She pressed the incoming message button.
“I’ve got those snapshots for you,” DeZona’s voice said. “That’s all they are. Tourist pix of New York City. And pretty lousy, too. Only one of them shows any eye for a decent camera angle. I’ll put them in my cubby so you can pick them up whenever you’re in. I’m beat. The bucks are good but the hours aren’t when you do too much overtime. I’m heading home before I drop dead on my feet.”
Liz looked at the clock. Six a.m. DeZona must have been called in early. While her head swam with questions and avenues she might pursue to answer them, Liz took a shower. Afterward, she sat in front of her fire wrapped in a terrycloth robe, waiting for her shoulder-length auburn curls to dry in the flickering heat.
Half an hour later, the phone rang.
“Liz? This is Laura. I couldn’t sleep last night so I went to work early. Plus, I thought it would be a good idea if I looked up Veronica’s emergency information card before my boss comes in. I’ve got Mrs. Swenson’s information for you.”
Liz took down the Wellesley address and telephone number and asked who else was listed on the card as authorized to take care of the eight-year-old in an emergency.
“It says, ‘Elizabeth Seaport, friend’,” Laura said, giving Liz the phone number. “Actually, I recognize that name. She’s the parent of another aftercare kid, Rhoda Seaport. Rhoda is a year younger than Veronica. There’s one more thing,” Laura added. “In the ‘Additional Information’ section of the card it says, ‘Under no circumstances to be picked up by taxi or hired vehicle.’ That’s dated December 18, this year.”