“What did the caller say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did Ellen answer any of the calls?”
“No. It’s better to have a man answer, don’t you think, when the phone rings unexpectedly in the night?”
“Did you often receive annoyance calls?”
“No. I can’t remember when we last had any unidentified people call us. So, this was odd, to say the least. I guess because we didn’t see ourselves as targets of a nut, we didn’t worry. Or, at least, I didn’t worry. Now I wish I’d kept the caller on the line, tried to draw him out to say something.”
“You did the best you could with the information you had at the time. Have the police turned up any information about the incoming calls?”
“They aren’t sharing any information with me. Unfortunately, when a woman goes missing, her husband is the most likely suspect. Before they haul me in on some trumped-up charge, give me a chance to get a hold of that cabbie. What do you know about him? Where can I find him?”
“He’s gone missing, too. The last time he was seen was during the day Ellen took a ride in his car. That’s why the matching blood type seems significant. But you must remember, it’s not conclusive. Until DNA results come back, we cannot be sure it’s the same man.”
“It’s a rare blood type, though, isn’t it? And then the cabbie has gone missing? That’s enough evidence for me!”
“I think it’s significant, too. I know this is awful news. That’s why I wanted to tell you in person before I report it in the paper, Erik.”
“And so you could get a few tidbits out of me for your story, too!” Erik’s tone was furious.
“I understand your impulse to blame the messenger of bad news. And I’ll do you the service of admitting that everything you tell me is useful to my work. But if you think my goal is to report a story with a tragic ending, you’re mistaken. There’s tragedy enough here, as you well know. I’d like to make sure there’s a positive outcome, Erik. I know and like your wife and I’m very fond of your daughter. I want to see all of you reunited. In the meantime, I’d like to help you make Veronica’s return to her bedroom a pleasant surprise. I’ve located a wallpaper man who is looking for the Charlotte’s Web–patterned paper and willing to hang it on the holiday weekend for you. He said he will have to get in and measure the room before he can order the paper. Here’s his phone number.”
“I’ll measure it myself and call him. That would save time.”
“Whatever you decide, give him a call soon so you can confirm his availability on the weekend.”
As Liz walked to her car, she noticed the swiftly falling snow had blanketed the macadam and the water-collecting grates in the Environmental Solutions parking lot. Seated in the Tracer, Liz phoned Tom to tell him about this wrinkle in their plans, but had to leave the message on his answering machine. If he accepted the measurements over the phone from Erik, it would be days before he saw the writing on Veronica’s wall.
Passing by the Minuteman Statue on Lexington Green, Liz found herself longing for another cup of coffee so she entered a gingerbread bakery that sported a HOT COFFEE sign in its steamy window. On impulse, Liz purchased a gingerbread man and gingerbread woman festively decorated with raisins, icing, and sprinkles. Her cell phone rang as she carried the bakery box through the snow to her car.
“I’ll be measuring Veronica’s room at noon,” Tom told her.
“How did you manage that? Erik seemed set on doing it himself.”
“I told him the truth. I have to measure and make the calculations myself. Even when customers have already bought paper, I won’t take on a job without measuring first. I bought a point-and-shoot, throwaway camera, too. I can’t guarantee Erik won’t stand over me the whole time I’m there, but I’ll do my best to get a shot for you.”
“Brilliant!”
“Just call me Watson.”
“My dear Watson.”
“That’s okay, too. If I can’t use the camera, I’ll try to draw a copy of whatever’s on the wall. I should be out of there by, say, 12:30. Wanna meet for lunch?”
“Absolutely! But not in Newton. Too much chance we’ll be overheard by Johansson neighbors. And I don’t want to run into Erik and make it clear we’re friends.”
“I have another job in Newton, so I need to stay in the area, Liz.”
Looking at the bakery box, Liz said, “Then how about a picnic in your van? Do you know a place they call the ‘Cove’? It’s in Newton but not in Erik’s neighborhood. I’ll meet you there at around 12:40, and I’ll bring lunch.”
“I know where it is. You’ll see my van in the parking lot.”
Wading through the slushy snow to her trunk, Liz took out a thermos, returned to the gingerbread bakery, and had it filled with hot coffee. Then she walked down the street to a deli and purchased two turkey sandwiches and dill pickle spikes. With an hour and a half to spare before she was set to meet Tom, Liz returned to her car and tried phoning Jan Van Wormer, only to get his voice-mail message again. She also got a voice-mail recording when she phoned Cormac Kinnaird. She left him a message saying she planned to report on the blood information today and turn in the cigarette butts to the police. She asked him to let her know when and where she could pick up the evidence and reminded him she’d have to tell her editor about the story no later than 3:00 p.m., in time for the afternoon news meeting. She also called René DeZona to be certain he was in, have him fetch a copy of his kitchen photo to use with the blood article, and let him know he might have a front pager if he could chase down Kinnaird and get a photo of him before the afternoon was over.
With this accomplished, Liz spent a full fifty-five minutes driving the seven and a half miles from Lexington to the “Cove” in Newton. The trip took her through well-heeled neighborhoods graced with large nineteenth-century homes; into other, more modest residential areas; and past numerous minimalls, still dolled-up with Christmas lights. Cars coming and going from the minimalls added to the traffic, which was already slowed by the heavy snowfall.
Although the lane leading to the “Cove” was poorly plowed, Liz enjoyed negotiating the hilly stretch, which led to a parking lot, playing field, and large park on the banks of the Charles River. Schoolchildren on vacation added color and activity to the wintry scene, as they pulled one another on sleds in the flat floodplain landscape or rolled huge snowballs and stacked them to build snowmen.
Opening one of her sandwiches, Liz took out two carrot sticks she’d seen the sandwich maker pack in the waxed paper. Stepping out of her car, she gave them to a girl who was making a snowman with her friends.
“We’ve got two noses!” the girl crowed, brandishing the carrot sticks to prove her point.
Minutes later, Tom pulled his van up beside the Tracer and led Liz to the back doors. Opening them with a flourish, he took out a hard plastic bucket, turned it upside down to make a step, and led Liz into the van. She saw he’d removed a seat, bundled his wallpapering equipment on the remaining bench seat, lined the compartment with a brightly striped Mexican blanket, and set up two more overturned plastic buckets with a board across them as a mini-table. The Beatles tune “Paperback Writer” was playing on his radio.
“You provide the picnic, I provide the picnic spot,” he smiled.
Sitting beside Tom with her legs bent to one side, Liz fell into him as she tried to give him a hug. A few minutes of snuggling ensued before the two, with much steamier windows surrounding them, sat up, unwrapped their sandwiches, and poured out coffee.
“I’ve seen all kinds of things written or drawn on walls underneath wallpaper,” Tom began. “Lots of dates with names of wallpapering crews—some cute messages, too. I remember one where some girl wrote, ‘Finally, I’m getting new wallpaper for my room.’ It’s common to see kids’ names and ages in kids’ rooms. Less often, I see a drawing obviously done by a kid. But until I saw the drawing in Veronica’s room, I’ve never seen anything upsetting on a stripped wall.”