“May I have your attention!” library director Vickie Nichols said. After some words of welcome, she led a bevy of bookworms, aspiring authors, and mystery writers into the assembly hall. There a well-dressed smiling Mary Higgins Clark recounted the story of her many rejections when she began to try her hand at writing short stories to her incredible multi-million dollar contract for her most recent books. The author’s caution to beginning writers was to never give up, and her freely given advice about how to write variations of the woman-in-jeopardy situation won a standing ovation.
“Always, always look for the overlooked domestic detail,” Clark advised, before adding, “I’d love to stay and hang out with you for the rest of the day, but I’m scheduled for a reading in Hingham at noon. Great to be with you. Cheers and may the cash registers jingle for all of you one of these days.”
Liz followed the author out of the assembly hall. “Ms. Clark,” she said. “Have you read about the missing persons case in Newton?”
“Yes, I have. It’s very sad.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Liz Higgins, reporting on the case for the Beantown Banner.”
“I read your report, and I thought a number of things in it were suggestive.”
“Yes?”
“I do have to get on to my next reading. But why don’t you walk me to my car?”
The two put on coats and left the library.
“What is your read on the mystery, Ms. Clark?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Mary,”
“All right. If you’ll call me Liz.”
“I’d take a long look at that front-page photo, Liz,” Clark said as she got into her car. “Good luck to you.”
Liz returned to the library, hung up her coat, and returned to the Periodicals Room. Fortunately, a copy of the Banner had been left on a table there. Scrutinizing DeZona’s Page-One photo of Ellen Johansson’s kitchen, she saw again the blood-splattered baking ingredients lined up on the countertop. Above the counter was a blackboard. On it, written in chalk, was a list. The first three items were spelled out neatly. They were also crossed out.
The fourth item was written in a hastier hand. And it was not yet lined out.
“FORGET ME NOT,” it read.
Back in the assembly hall, Dr. Kinnaird was sending shivers through the mostly female audience with a slide show of horrors—and perhaps with his good looks, too. The adjective “distinguished” seemed made for him. When Liz re-entered the overheated room, he was removing a suit jacket that had to have been hand-tailored, revealing a shirt ornamented with cuff links. Draping the jacket over a chair and turning back to the assembly in one smooth motion, he enlightened the crowd: “Bite marks, like fingerprints, are very individual markers that help us identify, with a fine degree of certainty, the animal or person who made the marks.” He went on to display slides of distinctive teeth-filled jaws and some grisly bite marks that had been made by those teeth.
The library director turned in her chair and surveyed the room with concern. Probably, she had expected the good doctor to focus on assault with blunt instruments and other less blood-curdling acts of bodily harm. She needn’t have worried. Only two ladies left the room in apparent distress. The others hung in for the whole horrific presentation, paying rapt attention. Dr. Kinnaird only succeeded in drawing a collective groan from them when he spoke of the likelihood that a victim might urinate under stress or in the throes of dying.
It was difficult to get Kinnaird’s attention after his talk, since his audience looked ready to make his book, Signs of Struggle, into a bestseller. They lined up eagerly to buy pre-signed copies of Mary Higgins Clark’s memoir and personally inscribed copies of Kinnaird’s book. Liz shook her head as she heard a woman ask Kinnaird to inscribe a book, “Happy Birthday, Matt. May this bring you many hours of enjoyment.” Neither amused nor nonplussed, Kinnaird carried out the request and signed his name with a flourish.
The forensics man only became free when it was Pamela Nesnarf’s turn to speak. The blowsy blonde looked more like a hooker than a private eye. And that, Liz heard her say, was the secret of her success.
“You’ve heard of the equal playing field. Well, that’s how I like my turf,” she said. “I figure, the cheating husband is gonna be pretty good at hiding who he really is—a suburban spouse with kids. So when I track him down with his lady friend in a bar or wherever, I don’t want to look like what I am, either. If he looks at me, he might think I’m a working girl,” Nesnarf said with a wink, “but I’m not the kind of working girl he imagines.”
In the library’s lobby, Liz turned her attention from Nesnarf’s talk, which could be easily heard, thanks to loudspeakers in the assembly room, and focused her attention on Dr. Kinnaird.
“I wonder if you could help me?” she said. “I’ve been covering the missing persons case in Newton. Have you read about it?”
“Indeed, I have. I commend your editors on having you consult me.”
Liz smiled. “We always seek the top experts,” she said.
The doctor’s ice-blue eyes flashed. “Of course, I’m handcuffed, so to speak, by not having visited the scene of the crime. All I have seen is your paper’s front-page photo. That’s very little, indeed, to work with.”
“Does it tell you anything at all?”
“It tells me the missing woman was trying her darnedest to outdo Martha Stewart. A custard dish for every sprinkle and flake of coconut. She hardly seems like the kind of person to leave such a bloody mess.”
“What about the blood? Does it give you any hints as to what must have happened?”
“Blood stains always have much to tell a knowledgeable forensics man. But when they’re only seen in a photo, let’s just say their communication would be rather more like a timid whisper than a definite shout. I would need considerably more to go on before I could hope to make any useful comment.”
“If I were able to supply you with more photos of the scene, do you think it’s possible you could draw any further conclusions?”
“It’s hard to say if there would be anything I’d be willing to state for the record. But I’d be willing to take a look at your pictures, on the condition that you don’t quote me unless I okay it.”
“Agreed! I’ll be going back to the newsroom this afternoon. I should be able to get copies of the photos then. What’s your schedule like? Could I show them to you by around 4:00 p.m.?”
“I’m afraid that won’t work for me. I’m scheduled to testify in Cambridge this afternoon.” Although his accent was American without any regional edge, Kinnaird pronounced “scheduled” in the British manner—“sheduled”—adding to the pompous impression his choice of words had already given. “It’s impossible to predict how late that will run,” he went on, and then surprised Liz by adding, “and I’m playing at the Green Briar after that.”
Liz knew the Green Briar was an Irish pub in Brighton, a working-class Boston neighborhood located on the Newton line. But it seemed strange for a distinguished forensics expert to admit he “played” there at night.
Reading the expression on her face he said, “The banjo. I play the Irish tenor banjo.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed. What makes it different than the ‘Oh, Susannah!’ kind? Are you in a band?”
“So many questions! I don’t have time to explain it now. Look, if you’re interested, why don’t you meet me at the Green Briar at around seven tonight? You can bring the photos and I’ll take a look at them.”