“Please don’t hang up when I tell you this: I have to admit, that was my report—from the time when Veronica was evaluating the Santas—that called attention to the wallpaper. I reported that she asked the seventh Santa for new wallpaper because she’d already asked the other six for every toy on her wish list. It was a cute remark, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Unless there was something under the wallpaper.”
“Was there?”
“The police thought so.”
“What was it?”
They wouldn’t tell me, but whatever it was caused them to haul me into the station for another hour of inquisition.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. What was the nature of their questions?”
“Are you sorry? Really? At this point, I don’t know what to think about you or about anyone else for that matter. Olga almost had me convinced you were an ally in finding my wife, and then she comes home utterly distraught after spending time in your company. Now you admit you’re the cause of the wallpaper fiasco.”
“Please, Erik, allow me at least to lighten your load about the wallpaper problem. As you already realize, a large part of Mrs. Swenson’s agitation today has to do with the destruction of your daughter’s bedroom. It’s bad enough that the room has been wrecked, but then, at first glance, the fact that the paper pattern may not be available makes things even worse. But the key point is Veronica wanted Santa to bring her new wallpaper. Don’t you see, if the wallpaper is changed, she will believe it was Santa’s work!”
“How would I know what paper she would like? And Veronica is going to be home in two days. Who would hang paper on New Year’s Eve Day or, worse yet, New Year’s Day itself, with no advance warning, in time for my daughter’s return home?”
“I can’t promise anything, but please trust that I’m working on it. In the meantime, Mrs. Swenson might be a terrific help, in one regard. Do you think you could ask her if I’m correct in assuming Veronica is a fan of Wilbur, the pig, in the book Charlotte’s Web?”
“I don’t need to ask her. I know the answer to that one. That is the book my wife was reading to Veronica before Ellen disappeared. Veronica fell in love with Wilbur. She made Ellen read the book to her three times.”
“I know it’s a long shot, but please allow me to see if we can find Charlotte’s Web wallpaper and one of Santa’s elves to hang it for your very special little girl.”
“Spare no expense. It’s an inspired idea.”
Chapter 18
Liz was a full twenty minutes late for her appointment with the DYS girls. Since the photographer had arrived, shot pictures, and left, Liz was left with the task of coaxing good quotes from the girls the photographer had chosen to focus in upon. It was often the case, Liz knew, that a striking face was a poor indicator of its owner’s talent with words. With females, especially, a less-than-stunning appearance was often a better predictor of verbal skills. With this in mind, and preoccupied with the more pressing desire to advance the Johansson investigation, Liz labored to appear enthusiastic about her subject. But then a young woman named LaShandra Washington called her on it.
“Look. Do you care about talkin’ wit’ us or not? We been waitin’ on you to get your ass over here so we could tell you something that matters. You get what I’m sayin’?”
“You’re being blunt with me, so I’ll be straight with you. I’ve got a little girl missing her mother, who disappeared from Newton last week.”
“Boo hoo! We should care about some white-bread kid from a perfect home that turns out to be not so perfect? Some people know all about things that never gonna be perfect. But you people in the press, you never get it, do you? This is where the real stories are, in us kids whose moms is always missin’.”
Liz looked LaShandra in the eye. “You have a point, LaShandra,” she said. “So what do you do about that? How do you keep going?”
“Not by making smart-ass New Year’s resolutions, I can tell you.”
“That’s right,” a couple of other girls chorused.
“Then how?”
“By kickin’ ass and tellin’ it like it is, that’s how!”
“Kickin’ ass about what kinds of things?”
“Abuse, for one thing,” LaShandra said. “Sex-u-al, verbal, e-mo-tional abuse. Abuse in every flavor. You mess with me, I kick your ass.”
“That’s right,” the girls chorused again.
What about telling it like it is? Who do you tell?”
“Depends on what you’re tellin’. If your daddy mess wit’ you, you don’t go runnin’ to him, ’cept to tell him to go fuck hisself.”
“That’s right!”
LaShandra dropped her eyes and softened her tone. “I might tell Father James somethin’ like that. Get him to restrict the old man’s visits, you know what I mean?”
“That sounds like a good idea. It also sounds like it would take courage,” Liz said.
LaShandra paused. “It takes that. Yeah, you need courage. But you also need resolve. That’s it. Some things you can’t fix with one of your New Year’s resolutions. You got to have resolve.”
Thanking her lucky stars that the photographer chose LaShandra as one of his subjects, Liz spoke with a few of the other girls, two of whom she recognized as contributors to the making of her afghan. On impulse, she took from her wallet a photo of Prudence preening herself on the afghan and gave it to them. Rough and tough as they were on the surface, they all dissolved into oohs and ahs as they passed the photo to one another. Only one of them seemed unmoved by the cat photo: a scrawny teen called Eleanor, a name that seemed far too big and old-fashioned for her. Liz made a mental note to seek out the reserved girl for a future report.
Saying her good-byes to the young women and to Father James, Liz knew time was tight, lines were up, and Dermott McCann would be on the warpath when she arrived late. Thanks to the cell phone, she was able to call and say she was on her way in. But that didn’t do a thing to take the sting out of city editor’s wrath.
“Where the hell’ve you been, Higgins?” the city editor demanded as soon as Liz approached his desk. “How are we supposed to get a paper out when we don’t know what you’ve dug up for us till after lines are up? Was it so difficult to come up with a freakin’ New Year’s resolution piece with a whole day to spare?”
“I’ve got that and more, Dermott. I managed to get inside the Johansson house with the missing woman’s mother. The police have stripped . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What else is new?” He pointed to the television screen mounted above his head, over the city desk. Its volume was low, but the picture was clear. Standing in front of the Johansson house was Channel Six newsman George Sanders, expounding on the wallpaper stripping.
“I hope, at least, you got a good look at the clue on the wall.”
“What clue?”
“I wish to hell I knew. Police aren’t saying. Hell, Higgins, you better wish you knew. You mean to tell me you were inside the house, inside the bedroom, and you didn’t see it?”
“I saw a completely stripped room. No, I take that back. Three walls were stripped completely. The fourth was only partially stripped.”