“And became such a good mother, too. Now I know where she got the idea of spending a mother-and-daughter afternoon on a regular basis with Veronica. Has there been any word at all from Ellen?”
“Not a one. And I hope that goes for any words I share with you. Not one will be printed in the paper. I’m talking to you strictly to give you background information. I hope I may have your word on that.”
“Yes, of course. Any insights you can provide may be invaluable. May I ask, what made you consider talking with me? Was it because I know Veronica?”
“She did press me to see you. But that didn’t decide me. It was because you spoke of Ellen in the present tense. You wouldn’t believe how many people—officials and even close friends—talk of her as if she is not just missing but gone. Gone forever.”
“Not her friend Lucy Gray, surely. And not me. From what you are telling me, it seems Ellen enjoyed an idyllic girlhood. And her home and family life certainly present a good impression. Was this the whole story, Mrs. Swenson?”
“I feared it would come to this. You want me to dig up some dirt on Ellen or her husband, just like the rest of the media.”
“You’re a gardener, Mrs. Swenson. You know you can’t cultivate anything without getting your hands dirty. The result itself doesn’t have to be filth, however. It might be something quite beautiful, in fact—like the truth.”
“That’s very prettily put. Your talents are wasted in a tabloid. But where will your pretty words lead me, and Erik, too?”
“I hope they will take us to Ellen.”
Olga Swenson shivered. She turned and began to walk to the far side of the topiary garden, making no objection as Liz stayed by her side. She remained mum as the pair passed masses of rhododendrons, their leaves curled as tightly as profiteroles against the cold. Liz imagined the mother and daughter laden with picnic basket and picture book, rejoicing in the flowers that would bloom here each June. Was the scenario too good to be true?
With footfalls softened by the snow, only the sound of the dog’s panting disturbed the peace as the women followed the wooded lakeshore. When Ellen’s mother picked up her pace, Liz was grateful, for the increased speed helped warm her. A quarter of an hour passed in this manner before Liz sensed the silence had become a companionable one. Then the older woman struck away from the shoreline up a small rise to the basement door of a stone and wood-shingled house. Nodding an invitation to Liz, she stepped inside to wipe Hershey down with an old towel.
“Would you mind waiting in the mudroom?” she asked, and disappeared up a stairway before Liz could reply.
There was nowhere to sit, so Liz stood as she surveyed the large workspace. While the New Englanders of her acquaintance tended to term an unheated porch or perhaps a vestibule “the mudroom,” this one existed on a much grander scale. It contained a large potting bench stocked underneath with bags of potting soil, vermiculite, sand, and peat moss. Another potting bench stood nearby, apparently used for flower arranging. Beside it were shelves packed with unusual vases. On the floor nearby, even in the dead of winter, stood a half-dozen French florist containers made of dust-colored aluminum, holding cut flowers fading on their stems. It seemed likely they were purchased before—and had not been touched since—Ellen’s disappearance.
“Coast clear,” Olga Swenson said from the top of the stairs. “I wanted to be sure Erik had not returned with Veronica yet. Thank you for waiting. Come on upstairs and warm yourself.”
Following her hostess’ lead, Liz removed her boots and padded, in her stocking feet, up the steps. Mrs. Swenson looked on approvingly and pulled a pair of terrycloth slippers from behind her back, offering them to Liz when she reached the landing.
It was the sort of house in which one “retired” to a sitting room where a fire was laid ready to blaze at the flick of a match. The matches were some ten inches long, and they were kept in a brass match holder permanently attached to the stone fireplace. Kindling and extra logs stood end-up in brass containers, too. These objects spoke more of comfort than money. While a professional no doubt laid the fires and cleaned the room, the brass wore the patina of age and usefulness. “Not a bad goal for any one of us to aspire to,” Liz reflected.
“My husband always prided himself on laying the perfect fire,” Olga Swenson said. “He’d never have been able to admit our housekeeper can do as well.”
“Where is your husband now?”
“He may be safely spoken of in the past tense. He drowned in the lake twenty-six years ago. It was the beginning of the end.”
“Oh, how awful! How old would Ellen have been at the time?”
“She was just eight years old.
“The same age as Veronica is this year.”
“Of course I’m haunted by that coincidence. I can’t bear the thought of Veronica suffering as my Ellen did. That’s why I’ve decided to talk with you. In confidence. I beg you, in confidence.”
Liz nodded.
“You’re an unusual woman,” Mrs. Swenson said.
“How is that?”
“You don’t ask the obvious. Yet I feel drawn to answer your unvoiced questions.”
Liz held her peace.
The widowed woman crossed the room to a sideboard.
“Madeira?” she asked. “Or, have you got beyond that?”
It sounded like a line in a drawing room comedy. But the seriousness of Olga Swenson’s expression erased that impression immediately.
“Madeira sounds lovely.”
“Yes, the word is melodious. But you’re thinking, ‘The drink may loosen her tongue.’”
Liz only smiled and took the small glass from her hostess’ hand.
“I thought I’d go to my grave with the information I’m about to share with you.”
“Now you won’t do that alone. I will take it to my grave, too.”
Mrs. Swenson considered her glass. Then she set the drink down, untasted, on the table beside her chair.
“My husband’s drowning was ruled accidental, and it may have been. But that does not mean it was not complicated.”
Liz resisted the urge to lean forward.
“It so often seems to me the English language lacks the capacity for shades of meaning that you find, for instance, in French. No, I’m not going to break into another language. Don’t worry. English suffices to describe Karl’s state on the day he died. He was beside himself. Pure and simple. Beside himself.”
“May I assume that was unusual for him?”
“Not entirely. I’d seen him that way when Ellen was born. When the night-blooming cerius came into flower. When our whippet died after lapping up antifreeze in the garage. When Ellen shot her first skeet into smithereens. At times of great emotion.”
“What caused him to be beside himself that day?”
“It was Ellen. He had to know it wasn’t her fault. She was only eight years old. I kept telling him, she’s only eight years old!” Olga Swenson said. “But he was so sure she’d sought to tease. Ellen was an early bloomer. Some girls are these days, you know? But within her generation she was very early. She was at that stage my generation reached at around thirteen years old. You know, more than prepubescent.”