“When I looked at that shot with a magnifying glass, I figured you’d need this,” the photographer said, handing Liz an enlargement. “Not a pretty picture,” he said.
“Not when you see this. Take a look at the tie. Veronica always drew her dad wearing an oversized tie. Freud might make something of that, but not me. Read all about family ties in tomorrow’s Beantown Banner!”
“‘FAMILY TIES.’ Not a bad headline, and it looks like you’ve got the art to back your story, too. Great job, Higgins. I gotta hand it to you,” Dermott McCann said, standing in the doorway to the photo department. “You made front page, with a lead and a teaser. Take the day off tomorrow. I’ve got Dick working on the Social Security angle. He’s got the contacts. Even if it’s a dead end, we’ve got to report what the government knows about this Hasan’s work record.”
Leaving the newsroom, Liz wondered if she could ever take a day off while a little girl counted on her to bring home her missing mom. Tired as she was, when she arrived home, she made another phone call to Jan Van Wormer’s Workshop, only to find the voice mail still jammed. Ali just had to be found. Two mysterious Middle Easterners connected to one missing woman were two too many. Their connection to Ellen demanded explanation.
“Wait!” Liz said aloud, startling her cat. “There are not just two but three people in Ellen’s life with ties to the Middle East.” Pouring a glass of Chardonnay, flipping on her gas fireplace, and pulling her afghan over her lap, Liz settled down in her armchair and opened the airmail letter addressed to Ellen.
18 December 2000
My Dear Ellen,
How can I ever express how marvelous it was to meet you at last! Such a strange experience it was, don’t you agree, to meet for the first time someone who has been your bosom companion for two decades? I am glad I need not struggle to describe such a feeling, because I know you, my dear friend, have experienced it, too.
Here I sit, in Heathrow Airport, wishing I could actually lie down during this tedious time they call a layover. As my English instructor would say, “I feel frightfully shattered!” I think in America you would say, “exhausted utterly.” In my part of the world, I would say, “Jiddan ta~bana,” which means, “I am very tired.” (I write it down for you knowing you are making a study of my language. How pleased and surprised I was to hear you greet me in my own tongue when we met in New York.)
I suppose the strangest and most wonderful thing about meeting you in person (I keep returning to the indescribable—I just can’t help myself!) was the opportunity to be looking into your eyes as you spoke. This, I think, was especially important regarding the confidences you shared with me. During my flight to this airport, I was unable to sleep, so I gave much thought to what you told me and I am of two minds about it. I have no doubt that I admire your courage, my dear friend. But I feel just as convinced that you are opening a Pandora’s box. I know you have told me there is relief in putting things out in the open, but I feel in my heart some things are better left with the lid on. Particularly, if they might be monstrous.
Still, dear Ellen, you may count on me to support you no matter how you decide to proceed. Perhaps if you take the path I would not choose, you shall prove me wrong and win liberation for yourself in the process. But what will happen to your family, your mother, if you seek that liberation? You must think how they will fare when you are not in what you called the “circle” anymore.
Perhaps, even now, you have already flown that circle. I sincerely hope not. Such decisions must be considered carefully and at great length. I regret I shall be world-hopping for the UN again, with no fixed address for several months, but I shall look for your letters when I return to my home in September. I hope they shall bear the familiar postmark, “Newton, Massachusetts,” on the outside—and happy news within.
With my love and friendship,
Nadia
Chapter 21
“What a fool I was!” Liz exclaimed. “Dick Manning, and even Tom, are right after all. I’m too close to this family.”
She did not wish to consider the letter’s implications but she knew she must. The fact was, Ellen had considered voluntarily exiting the family circle. If this were true, it would account for some circumstances Liz had chosen to gloss over. There was the blood flung with the fingertips over the cookie ingredients. And the “FORGET ME NOT” message. Now that looked like it came to mind thanks to the broken teacup’s pattern name and seemed a good thing to write in the circumstances. And, of course, it accounted for Ellen’s reading choices, particularly How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found. Liz was furious with herself for not keeping that book title in the front of her mind. And it occurred to her that in her haste, she had forgotten to thank Lucy Gray for e-mailing the code word “Blister” to her. Well, perhaps Lucy would rather not admit she’d sent it, after all.
Haste. That was always the problem, wasn’t it? Here it was, December 27. Ellen had gone missing from her home December 18. While much had been accomplished in nine days, key items had been overlooked, and Ellen’s whereabouts remained unknown. The apparently perfect mother might have chosen to manufacture a scene of distress and desert her family, but that didn’t mean Liz should be any less earnest about finding her. She still had her promise to Veronica to keep. But what kind of revelation would accompany locating Ellen? How would it affect Veronica?
Gazing into the flickering flames of her fireplace, Liz felt angry with herself not just for believing in Ellen, but also for wishing she could continue to believe in the picture-perfect mother. Getting up from her chair, she crossed to her kitchen, poured herself another glass of wine, turned on her radio, and peeled an apple in readiness to slice it. But she soon froze, with the apple skin curling over her fingers, as the voice of the WLTR-Radio announcer caught her ear.
“During routine towing of illegally parked, snow-covered vehicles in Boston this afternoon,” the announcer said, “Boston police uncovered a car rented by Ellen Johansson, the woman who has been missing from her Newton home since December 18. According to police spokesperson Tara Foley, the vehicle was found completely buried in plowed snow near the Boston Public Library.
“Inside the car, police found paperwork indicating the car had been rented by Ellen Johansson yesterday, eight days after she went missing from her home. The woman’s husband, Erik Johansson—who had been released from Newton police custody after he was questioned about assaulting Boston World news reporter Mick Lichen—was taken in to Boston police headquarters again this evening, where he identified the fountain pen, wedding ring, and bracelet found in the car as belonging to his wife. Under questioning, he admitted all the jewelry found in the car had been gifts to his wife from him. Lichen remains in the Newton-Wellesley Hospital with a broken leg sustained in the altercation. Boston police are holding Erik Johansson in custody overnight.”
When the report was finished, Liz set down her apple, rinsed her hands, and phoned the newsroom. “We’re onto it,” Jared informed her. “Dick’s at the car rental place now.”
“Is that Higgins?” she heard Dermott McCann inquire. “Hand me the phone. Listen, Liz, are you sure that drawing is of Daddy’s tie? It’s looking like something was rotten in that household.”