Thing was. It would make a hell of a story. If she could nail it tonight, get whatever Ella was searching for, she could bang out such a blockbuster she’d be on the front page for weeks. Her job would be safe and everyone would live happily ever after.
She marched up the front walk, head down against the bluster, in the lee of the big shrubs, practicing what she’d say to Ella. Get out, let’s leave, let’s meet with my city editor, decide what to do. In a reasonable way. A legal way. Let’s make sure you aren’t arrested for trespassing and burglary.
At the front door, she knocked. Again. Nothing. She rang the doorbell, but didn’t hear a chime echoing from inside. Broken? She knocked again. No answer.
Maybe Ella wasn’t inside after all.
She turned, ready to bail. Happy to bail. Relieved.
She could talk to Ella in the morning.
The smell was getting worse, and it seemed like the room was… well, Ella’s knees felt a little shaky. No wonder she was nervous. She kept hearing funny noises. It had to be the wind, though. Tree branches hitting the roof.
Ella lowered herself to the love seat, taking deep calming breaths. She’d rest, only for a moment. She felt a little sleepy, probably nerves. Leaning back on the cushion, she stretched full length, trying to slide her feet under the coffee table, but instead, they hit something solid. Huh. The table was more like a… She leaned forward, lifting the heavy cloth that draped over… something.
A trunk. Under the fabric, the table was really a trunk. Like those steamer trunks she’d seen in old movies. She picked up the fabric by the hem, and saw the trunk’s two metal clasps, each with a loop for a padlock. But no locks held them in place.
Her eyes were beginning to water a bit. She was doing her best not to think what death smelled like, or how long Lillian’s body had lain, undiscovered, in the bedroom right next door. She had decided to do this, and she was going to do it.
Ella stood, pulled at the cloth cover, tossed it aside. Lillian wasn’t there to make sure everything stayed exactly in place.
Using both hands, Ella flapped open the clasps and lifted the lid. It creaked up on expanding metal hinges, and when she pushed it to the limit, it stayed in place with a click.
She stared at what she saw inside, almost afraid to reach out her hand to touch it.
The lid slammed closed. Ella jumped back, terrified at the sound.
“Ow!” she yelled, though she wasn’t hurt. She held a hand to her pounding heart. Tried to smile. “Pull yourself together, Ella.”
She creaked open the top again, this time holding it in place with one hand while she stared at the contents.
It was not packed with clothes, or old blankets, or battered photo albums. No family heirlooms, no souvenirs or memorabilia. On the bottom of the trunk, a spindly metal file holder, matching the empty one she’d seen on Lillian’s desk. But this one wasn’t empty.
One after the other, manila folders, labeled, lined up-alphabetically, she instantly noticed-in a row. A dozen, maybe more. Each folder marked in Lillian’s precise handwriting on a stick-on label.
The label on the first file folder said BEERMAN.
Ella, on her knees, still holding up the trunk lid with one hand, reached in to pull out the folder.
If she was right? Everything would change.
66
“Check. It. Out.” Keefer’s whispery voice had that stoned sound. Kellianne could always tell when he was high. Instead of passing the joint to Kev, he gestured with it, out the windshield. “Freakin’ a. It’s working. All we have to do is wait.”
“No shit,” Kev said. “But what if-”
“I took the batteries out,” Keefer said. “So the alarms won’t go off. Cut the phone. And it’s getting snowy, no one can see out their windows. Till it’s too late.”
Kellianne leaned forward, her arms on the padded back of the front seat, talking around the headrests. “If you guys don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m gonna call the cops myself. Rat you out. I can do it, you know.”
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say. The boys weren’t that much fun when they were high, and sometimes even got mad. And kind of ugly. “Ha ha, only kidding,” she said. “But really, I mean-”
“Little sister,” Kev interrupted. “We are the problem solvers. How do we keep five-oh from connecting us with the geezer in the Lexus? We gotta make sure they don’t know we were in the dead woman’s house. And how do we do that?”
Kev sucked on the joint again, then handed it to Keefer with a nod. “Go ahead, say it, bro.” He choked out the words to keep the smoke down.
“We get rid of the house,” Keefer said.
Kellianne blinked, trying to follow Keefer’s pointing finger. It was hard to see the house. Snow was falling and there were trees and shadows everywhere and a huge shrub right in their way. All she could see was the backs of their heads, the fogged-up windshield, the dark outline of the shrub, and snow.
Kellianne was so confused. “You can’t even see the house.”
“We’re watching for the-never mind,” Kev said. “Shut the hell up and go back to your coloring books.”
Kellianne tried to see what they were seeing, but the whole van was smoky inside. Whatever.
Jane made it halfway down the path, heading back toward her car. Stopped behind the huge bayberry bush, protected from the icing night and the bitter sting of cold. Something smelled funny. She glanced across the street, looking for chimneys, thinking maybe there were fires in fireplaces.
She turned, sniffing again, and listened hard, trying to untangle the soft whistle of the wind and the hiss of the falling sleet from whatever had stopped her.
She should try Ella one more time. Jane reached into her parka pocket for her phone, but it slipped out of her gloved hand and onto the snow-slick flagstone path.
“Damn.” As she turned to scoop up the phone, she heard the sound of shattering glass. Glass? It wasn’t the phone screen, it was much louder than that. She turned, following the sound. The side of the house. The basement window. Smoke. Pouring from the blown-out casement. Smoke.
She grabbed her phone, yanked off her glove, punched 911, wiping with a finger to keep the snow off the screen. She stuffed the glove into a pocket. Her hand was already freezing.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
Jane calmed her voice. She’d done dozens of stories about frantic 911 callers who delayed emergency response by incomprehensible terrified babble, talking too fast or leaving out facts.
“There’s a fire,” she said. “At twenty-seven Margolin Street.”
“Are you in Boston, ma’am? Fire?”
“Yes, fire.” It was all Jane could do not to shriek. She’d said fire, what was unclear about that? Oh, she was using her cell phone. The dispatcher had no idea where she was calling from. “Yes, Boston. A window’s blown out.”
“Are you outside, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes, I’m outside, but-”
“Is everyone else outside, ma’am?”
“Are you sending the fire truck?” Jane was losing it, fast. This was taking forever and she couldn’t figure out why the dispatcher sounded confused. There was nothing confusing. “It’s a fire!”
Jane turned back to the front door, clamping the phone to her cheek. The door might simply be open. She’d never tried the lock, but only knocked and tried the bell, assuming that Ella would have answered if inside. But what if something was wrong inside? Maybe Jane should have called 911 sooner.
And hoped they wouldn’t think it was Jane-who-cried-wolf.