On the same page, a small item ran under the headline, “TEACUP PUZZLER,” and the Manning byline. “A teacup found in missing mom Ellen Johansson’s kitchen sink may have held no liquid. But, according to Newton Police Chief Anthony Warner, it contained plenty of inconclusive evidence. ‘The prints on it belong to Mrs. Johansson and two additional unidentified individuals,’ Warner said. ‘It’s unusual to find numerous prints inside and out like this on a drinking cup. But without matches for the other prints, we can’t draw any conclusions here.’
“When Johansson, 34, disappeared December 18, leaving her kitchen full of cookie ingredients splattered with blood, a matching teacup was left on a side table in the living room. The discovery of the teacup in the sink has led police to speculate Johansson was interrupted in serving tea to someone known to her on the afternoon she went missing. ‘We found no evidence of forced entry,’ Warner said, in a December 18 interview.”
Setting down the Banner, Liz went to her desk and took out her envelopes of photos, leafing through them to find the extra photo DeZona had taken of the Johansson kitchen. Evidently, DeZona had climbed on something—perhaps a kitchen step stool—to fire his second kitchen shot, since this photo offered a view into the sink. Sitting in the perfectly clean, stainless steel sink was a delicately patterned, bone china teacup. Liz turned to the living room photo she had recently shown to Faisal Al-Turkait. There was the matching teacup, half-filled with liquid, resting on a saucer. Using a magnifying glass, Liz examined both teacups bearing a design of tiny blue blossoms.
Calling to mind her conversation over tea at Ellen’s house, Liz remembered how Veronica had interrupted it by dropping the teacup. And she remembered, too, her quick glance into the Johansson dining room on the day Ellen disappeared.
Just then, the timer rang and she paused in her thinking to take a perfectly formed soufflé out of her oven. She sliced a tomato over a few spinach leaves, then cut into the soufflé, causing it to collapse with a small sigh, and placed some on her plate. Before taking her late-night dinner to her table, she put some of Prudence’s favorite canned food into a clean dish and set it down for her.
Only then did Liz raise her glass to Prudence and say, “Forget-me-not!”
Liz knew the hastily written words on Ellen’s blackboard were no farewell message. They were just the name of the china pattern. When Veronica dropped her cup, it must have cracked or chipped. That was why there was a saucer lacking a cup in Ellen’s china cabinet. The replacement, which most likely was purchased in Florissa’s Gift Emporium in New York, had been sitting in Ellen’s sink. Any fingerprints inside it were less likely to belong to an intruder in the kitchen than to Ellen, a shop clerk, and perhaps Nadia.
The shop would never be open at this hour, and it would almost certainly be closed on Christmas, but Liz remained eager to know when it would open again so she could ask about the sale of a single teacup. She dialed the number on the gift emporium’s business card and listened to the message—with a music box tune tinkling tinnily in the background—which informed her the shop would reopen December 26.
That meant she could not write a follow-up story about this on Christmas Day and would be stuck covering whatever struck the city editor’s fancy. Unless she found another promising avenue of investigation.
While washing her dishes by hand, Liz let her thoughts flow freely. Just as the “FORGET ME NOT” message meant something different than it first suggested, so must some of the other evidence in this case have been misread. It was time to look at other pieces of information with fresh eyes.
It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when Liz stepped away from her sink and into her bathroom. Stepping out of her clothes, she showered and washed her hair. Then she took out her vial of Fijian coconut oil and slowly spread it all over her body. It would spot her sheets, but they were old anyway, and the pleasure of slicking her skin with oil from two hemispheres different from her own—the eastern and the southern—was too good to resist.
Slipping between her sheets, Liz turned out her lamp and let her gaze linger on the glowing Christmas tree. Finally, she got up and turned the tree lights out. Back in bed, she lay quietly, wondering, Where in the world is Ellen Johansson? while watching the flickering light reflected from her fireplace as it danced across her ceiling.
New York City, December 16, 2000
Samir Hasan was at a loss. Not dressed adequately for dining in the Windows on the World restaurant, he pondered how he could keep his eye on the women there. Then, noticing another man in the elevator holding a plastic bag from the Gap, he asked him if the shop was located nearby.
“Turn right, out of the elevators,” the fellow said.
Fortunately, the sporty shop located on the World Trade Center’s ground floor did carry navy blazers. Along with a pair of new slacks, a pale blue shirt and tie, and a pair of sunglasses, the blazer would make him look both presentable and unfamiliar to his former taxi passenger. Hasan tried on the outfit, then, cursing the time it took to remove and purchase it, he returned to the dressing room and put on the new clothes again. The whole process took some twenty-four minutes. It took another six for him to reach the restaurant.
Luck was with him as a single businessman gave up a table just as Hasan arrived. But the maitre d’ was in no hurry to give him the uncleared table.
“I am in such a haste,” Hasan explained. “I will be closing a business deal shortly, but with the jet lag and no good meal since I departed London, I am ravishing,” he added earnestly, winning a smile at last from the maitre d’.
Shown to the seat, Hasan was asked if he preferred the buffet or the à la carte menu. Following the waiter’s outstretched hand pointing in the direction of a large buffet spread, the cabbie hardly dared believe his luck. There he saw the pale-haired woman approach the sumptuous spread. A moment later, as her friend joined her, Hasan was also at her side, serving himself fruit salad while overhearing the pair’s enthusiastic chatter.
“Isn’t it something, after all these years of being pen pals, to find out how many tastes we share?” the Middle Eastern woman said.
“I can’t get over it!” the fair woman enthused. “Now, tell me Nadia, what is the word for this?” She pointed to a coffee urn.
No speaker of the Arabic language would be at a loss for such a word. Riveted, Hasan had to remind himself to act interested in the buffet food while he listened for more. He picked up a roll and a pat of butter.
“I know that’s mishmish, but how about these berries?” the fair woman said, pointing to a tray of fresh strawberries.
“I’m not sure of the word for them. We call a wild berry tukki but these look like they are cultivated.”
“Tukki. What a cute word! And easy to remember, too. It sounds a little bit familiar, but I can’t figure out where I’ve heard it.”
Was it possible this shaqra did not understand his language after all? That her knowledge of Arabic was limited to a few phrases she had learned to say when greeting a pen friend? Could it be she not only did not understand but had barely found memorable the code words he should never have discussed over his two-way radio?