On her way back toward the towers, she shot another photo of her own, this one with a street-corner vendor of roasted chestnuts shown in the foreground. This shot particularly pleased her, since she saw it as a scene that brought together timeless and contemporary New York.
Snapping the lens cap onto her camera, she reached the corner as the WALK light invited her to cross. She stepped off the curb with a crowd and strode across the street toward her long-awaited rendezvous.
Chapter 7
Newton, Massachusetts, December 20, 2000
The plastic reindeer in the Seaport family’s front yard was an eyesore during daylight, at least. But it made the house easy to identify. When the mom who ruled the roost opened the door, it was immediately obvious that the Seaport home had a more lived-in atmosphere than did the Johanssons’ house. A plastic mat covering the carpet in the vestibule was cluttered with shoes, boots, and a dog bone, all of which were rapidly becoming more disordered as a good-natured golden retriever danced around in excitement at Liz’s arrival.
“It’s so wonderful of you to help out,” the lady of the house said as she led Liz into her dining room. “I’ll just get you some coffee. Cream? Sugar?”
“Just cream, please, Elizabeth,” Liz said, thinking how rare it was to be thought of as helpful to others in the course of reporting.
“Oh, please, call me Betsy. Everyone does.”
The dining table was covered with rolls of wrapping paper. And the floor was piled high with presents.
“Are all of these for Rhoda?”
“Not quite. A few are for her cousins. I know we overdo it, but it’s so much fun to buy for her.”
Liz rolled out some paper and placed a box on it to gauge the amount of paper needed to wrap it. Then, as she cut the wrap, she said, “You know, Betsy, some people are speculating that Ellen left her family of her own free will.”
“That’s impossible. I know Ellen, and I know she would never leave Veronica and Erik. Veronica is the joy of her life. And the marriage looks good to me, too. I know they say the husband is always a suspect when a wife goes missing, but I just know there’s no weirdness with them. They’re solid.”
“Is it possible they’re too ‘solid’? Could Ellen have been restless?”
“God knows, she and I have kvetched about the predictability of our lives, but that doesn’t mean either of us would take off and leave our family. I’d be more worried about a friend who never vented than I would be about a person who can complain and laugh about it later. Ellen was open about this stuff. And we often had a good laugh about our kids and parenting.”
Betsy paused in the struggle to wrap a stuffed orangutan. Liz tore off some tape to help her with the process.
“Thanks. It’s amazing how often you need three hands in the course of a day of mothering.”
“As neighbors, you and Ellen often gave each other a hand?”
“We spent a lot more time together when our girls were infants and toddlers than we have recently. Ellen took two years off to be a full-time mother after Veronica was born. She went back to work full-time, let’s see, about six years ago. We’re not strangers to one another even now, but the librarians see more of her on a day-to-day basis than I do. You’ll probably want to talk with them. If you decide to do that, steer clear of Monica Phillips. She’s the kind of biddy who gives librarians a bad name. You know, finger to her lips and ‘Shhh!’ every time my Rhoda makes a peep. But Lucy Gray’s a different story. She and Ellen attended Simmons together—you know, the library college in Boston—and they’re great friends. And book lovers, too. Tell Lucy I said to talk to you and she’ll tell you a lot about Ellen, I guarantee it.”
“Thanks. Would it be too much trouble for you to give Lucy a ring yourself and smooth the way?’
“No problem.”
“What do you know about somebody called ‘Nadia’? Apparently, Ellen met Nadia in New York City the other day.”
“I don’t have a clue. Never heard of anyone by that name.”
“Did Ellen talk with you about the trip?”
“No. Not a word. I’m trying to remember the last time we spoke.” Betsy tied a bow while wrinkling her brow. “I know! It was when my husband was setting up the reindeer out front. I came out to bring him some hot chocolate and Ellen was pulling into her drive with her new car. One of those fuel-efficient models. Erik Johansson’s an environmentalist, you know.
“She was all excited about the deal she got on it. Something about bargaining with an Arab. But I only had a sweater on and it was freezing out, so I didn’t stay to talk. I remember the sweater because it matched hers. We both had on thick cardigans with Christmas reindeer and presents knitted into the pattern. We both laughed and said we’d either have to look like twins or make a decision about who gets to wear the sweater at the school holiday gathering. As it turned out, I said I’d wear my holly sweater. But I needn’t have worried. She never made it to that party after all, did she? She went missing and her mother whisked Veronica off to Wellesley before the party day anyway.”
“What about Mrs. Swenson? Do you have the impression Ellen and her mother are close?”
“Much closer than she was with her late father. He died when she was still in elementary school.”
Betsy paused to measure another sheet of wrapping paper.
“You know,” she said, “the more we’re talking, the more I realize how much I’ve lost touch with Ellen over the last several years. Things like that scene in her kitchen make everything different, don’t they? They make you wonder.”
Opening her scissors slightly and positioning the sheet of paper between the blades, Betsy leaned forward into her task, neatly shearing the paper along an unseen line. Her expression formed a sharp contrast with the beaming Santas pictured on the wrap.
“I’ll let myself out,” Liz said, leaving Betsy to compose her face and her thoughts.
It was a short walk to the Newton Free Library—just across the City Hall Common. Kicking herself for failing to get a description of Lucy Gray, Liz walked between tall piles of plowed snow on the drive that crossed the City Hall property to the new and impressive library building. The last time she’d seen it, the statuary there—including a brass Eeyore beloved by children—was eye-catching. After the snowstorm of the night before, such landscape ornaments were only suggested by mounds of snow.
Fortunately, the library’s circulation desk was staffed by two men and a woman who had to be in her early twenties. Monica Phillips might be avoided.
Or maybe not. When Liz asked for Lucy Gray, the young circulation librarian directed her to the reference desk. Arriving there, Liz saw two names listed on the “ON DUTY” sign: Monica Phillips and Lucy Gray. The librarians wore name tags, too, so Liz posed her question to Lucy.
“I’m looking for a mixed bag of books,” she said, and listed the four books that she knew were Ellen Johansson’s favorites.
Automatically, Lucy began to input title and author of the first. She typed “trifles susan glasp” and then broke off her work. She glanced at Monica Phillips.
“Actually, I have another author I’m seeking. Would you see what comes up under ‘Liz Higgins’?”
Lucy looked at Liz. Then she seemed to make up her mind.
“I happen to know that first book you requested is on a book truck waiting to be reshelved,” she said. “If you’ll join me, we may be able to retrieve it.”