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“Yes, I know she was there today. I saw her there myself. But I didn’t see Ali. What time of day was this?”

“Around one-thirty.”

“That’s when I was there.”

“You wouldn’t have seen my apprentice anyway. You see, after he looked into the little hidey-hole, he hid.”

“What hidey-hole?”

“The place where he and Ellen—they were friends, you know—used to hide little toys and treasures. It’s in the summerhouse, under a loose board in the floor.”

“What did he find in the hidey-hole?”

“A toy horn I think. He said he blew it, but then, after spitting this much out, he went all tongue-tied on me.”

“Perhaps I can get him to tell me more.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. The poor fellow has run off again.”

Overtired from her day and confused in the darkness, Liz made a wrong turn as she attempted to drive back home. The mistake cost her almost an hour, as she found herself winding through sand-edged roads and past several small ponds in Myles Standish State Forest. But the long drive also gave her time to think. Teased by the fact that she and Ali had both been on the edges of the topiary garden at the same time but had not seen one another, she recalled René DeZona’s remark, “My lens often sees things the eyes don’t.”

She recalled how, earlier that day, two students had posed on the hillside leading up to the summerhouse. Liz remembered framing them in the larger scene. Did her photo include the summerhouse, too? Perhaps. It was a long shot, but what if the photo revealed Ali holding the object that had upset him?

Pulling off the road, she dialed the operator and asked for the telephone number for Wellesley College information and then dialed it. She was in luck. The person on information line duty at Wellesley College was a student. Although at first the student told Liz she was not supposed to give out telephone numbers unless the caller knew both first and last names, she relaxed when Liz said, “You know that hot prof Florrie’s nuts about? Well, I’m his TA. He asked me to get in touch with her for him.”

“Oh, well, if you’re his teaching assistant. . .” She supplied the number.

Fortunately, Florrie was thrilled to be contacted by a news reporter. Although the camera was not hers, she knew it was a digital model. She said she’d get in touch with her friend Ellen and ask her to e-mail the image to Liz as soon as possible.

It took almost an hour for Liz to reach the newsroom, where she accessed her e-mail. Sure enough, the Wellesley student had come through. There was the image of the two attractive young women in the topiary garden. Unfortunately, though, the camera angle did not take in the summerhouse. Liz should have remembered this, because when she stood in the shade at the edge of the Pinetum to take a backlit shot, she would have had to point the camera westward, not northward, up the slope. The wider scene Liz had framed included Lake Waban and the balustrade that defined the shore. Exhausted, Liz printed out the image on ordinary paper, folded it into her pocket, and drove home.

Too tired to fuss with the window shades, Liz left them open and went straight to bed. That meant she had a great view of Tom’s legs through her kitchen window when she awoke in the morning. She invited him in and, ruefully, he agreed to give Cormac Kinnaird the packet of evidence Liz had prepared, if the doctor came by to collect it while Tom was still there. Standing at her kitchen counter and gazing at the photo she’d taken in the topiary garden, she left a telephone message for Cormac, telling him about the bird’s nest find and adding, “I’m off to inform Olga about what I’ve discovered. I’d tell Erik in person, too—it seems the civilized thing to do to inform the family personally—but he’s in police custody. Perhaps we can do that together, later,” she added, as Tom’s expression darkened.

Chapter 29

Liz drove to Wellesley and parked on the college campus. She wanted to make her way to Olga’s through the Pinetum and topiary garden. The walk would give her time to consider how to break the news.

Liz’s beautiful legs felt leaden as she left the topiary garden behind and rounded the lake to Olga’s house. And yet she strode on purposefully. Approaching the house from the lakeshore, she walked directly toward the door of the mudroom. Standing slightly ajar, the door was caught by a gust of wind as she neared it, affording her the chance to look inside while remaining unobserved. Olga could be seen standing with her back to the door. For the first time, Liz thought how odd it was for Olga to work with her back to that view. Then, she thought, perhaps it was explicable after all, since the woman’s husband had died in those waters.

On Olga’s potting bench stood not one but three flower arrangements. On the floor to the left and right of Olga stood still more. As Liz ran her eyes over the arrangements, she realized Olga had executed eight different designs representing as many schools of flower-design technique. There was a formal French arrangement, strong on big, blowsy blooms, in a gilt pedestal-style container. It would have looked at home in a French château. At the opposite extreme was a minimalist Ikebana design. Dependent on one bamboo stalk, one striking bloom of Heliconia, and a spear-like leaf Liz could not name, this was a study in proportion and balance. Olga’s technically perfect but disparate arrangements looked unlikely to be useful in any single venue.

Olga turned. She seemed unsurprised to see Liz standing there.

“I’m missing Ellen,” was all she said. She waved an arm towards the arrangements. In her hand was a pair of florist’s scissors designed for rose cutting.

Entering the mudroom, Liz removed a coat from one of the hooks near the door and held it, her arms extended, displaying to Olga the manufacturer’s label, marred with the word “Ritz” stamped on it in hot pink ink.

“I see we shop in the same place,” Liz said. “Puttin’ on the Ritz. Excellent bargains there, don’t you think? Even during the week before Christmas, one can buy a new coat, even a complete new outfit, on sale.”

Olga said nothing.

“You didn’t care about the price, though, did you, when you purchased this coat in that shop last December? It was more the convenience that attracted you. Money would have been no object in covering up what you did. No, it was the convenience that attracted you, wasn’t it, Olga? The shop is right around the corner from your hairdresser.”

Olga shifted the scissors from one hand to the other. She said nothing.

“The neighborhood around your hairdresser is one you know well, isn’t it? You could almost call it a ‘haunt.’ You’ve had the same hairdresser for years, even decades, haven’t you? You usually park your car under the Prudential Center, where Lord & Taylor is. Or, on occasion, you park it in Newton and travel into town on the Green Line with your daughter—the wife of an environmentalist, after all.

“Yes, you know the area well, in every season. Not far from Lord & Taylor are the Boston Public Library and the Copley Square T stop for the Green Line. A quick taxi ride would deliver you to Back Bay Station and the commuter rail that runs all the way out to Wellesley: a convenient route to Wellesley if you go into the city by train—let’s say, to rent a car after an accident. There’s a car rental place on Boylston Street, just doors away from Puttin’ on the Ritz.

“You also know that, in the winter when there is a snowstorm, snow gets thrown up on cars so that they are entirely covered with the stuff. Sometimes vehicles sit there for days or weeks before the city digs them out and tows them away.”

Olga set down her scissors and picked up a rose from the potting bench. Peering at Liz over its tightly closed bud she tore off a blood-red petal and cast it on the floor at her feet.