Chance

CHAPTER 33

Abigail Becker lived on School Street in Needham in a small gray shingled ranch house with white shutters and a bright blue door. There was a pink bicycle with hand brakes and gear shifts and low-slung handlebars leaning against the side of the house. I parked on the street near a hydrant across from the house and sat in the car with a large cup of decaf and two plain donuts. The street was lined with houses that looked like the Becker house, varying only in color and ornament. It was empty of life at 10:15 on an overcast Wednesday morning in the fall. Kids in school, parents at work. It was raining sporadically and it was dark enough so that the houses where someone was home showed lights in the windows.

Abigail's mother would certainly have called her and told her about me. She would also have said that she didn't tell me where Abigail lived, and maybe Abigail would believe it. Though if I could find her mother, she might figure that I could find her. I sat.

The rain on my windshield made the colors of the fall trees look. like an impressionist painting. I ate a donut and drank some coffee. I could see the house okay. The rain had little effect on the side windows. I ate my second donut and finished my decaf. There was no sign of life in the Becker house. I got out of the car and walked to the front door. They had kids in school. The parents worked. They'd hide a key somewhere. I looked around for the best spot as I went up the walk. There was a doormat, but that was so obvious they probably wouldn't use it. On the front step I paused, glanced around, and opened the mailbox. No. There were windows on either side of the front door, and there were shutters on either side of the windows. I ran a hand behind the shutter to the right of the door. No. I tried the other one, and the key was there hanging on a loop of string from a thumbtack in the back side of the shutter frame. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I opened the front door and went in. The house was empty. I could feel the emptiness immediately. The living room was to the right, the dining room to the left. They were both furnished in cheap Danish modern. Five piece living room set now only $1100. The dining room was walnut. The living room was blond. In the living room, on the mantel over the clean fireplace, were pictures of three young girls, elementary-school age, maybe twelve, ten, and eight. I went down the short center hall to the kitchen. Cereal bowls and plates with toast crumbs on them, coffee cups and juice glasses and cutlery were stacked in the sink. An empty milk carton sat on the kitchen table, and a jar of grape jelly with the cap still off stood on the table beside it.

Across the hall was a family room with a day bed in it, one of those kind on wheels which you can rent. It didn't look like it belonged there. Furniture had been pushed out of the way to make room for it. The bed was unmade. There was a small lavatory off the family room. There was a lip liner on the sink, and in the wastebasket several tissues with the kiss imprint that women leave when they blot their lipstick. There was no sign of clothing.

Upstairs there were four bedrooms, the beds unmade, clothing scattered on the floor. There were damp towels wadded on the floor of the bathroom, and a cap less tube of toothpaste oozed some of its contents onto the sink top. Three of the bedrooms obviously belonged to the girls. The fourth was larger and appeared to be the master bedroom. There was a king-sized bed, unmade, and two closets. One was full of women's clothes, the other full of men's. A pair of white panty hose was draped over the foot of the bed. Some boxer shorts had been tossed toward the laundry basket in one of the closets and fallen considerably short. The house was a mess.

I'd been in enough houses on short notice, or none, to know that houses were often a mess. There were three kids to get dressed and fed and off to school before their parents got ready for work.

They'd pick up a little when they got home. They might clean on the weekend. They'd put everything in order before they had company. They were not expecting a burglar. I had broken and entered often enough in my life to be used to it. But I never liked it. I always felt sort of voyeuristic, peeping in on the personal clutter of people's privacy.

I went back downstairs and looked around in the family room again. There was a pale green plastic hair roller on the floor under the rollaway bed. There was an empty bottle of nail polish remover on top of the television set and a highball glass with a little water in the bottom. I smelled it. It smelled like bourbon. The water was probably melted ice. Someone, presumably a woman, had been staying in the room. But there were no clothes, no luggage. I went back up to the master bedroom and looked more carefully through the closet and the bureau. All the woman's clothes were size 12.

They all seemed consistent in style. Susan would have been helpful here, but she had always had some kind of hang-up on breaking into people's homes and snooping in their closets.

I walked around the house again and saw nothing else that would help me so I went back out the front door, hung the key up behind the shutter, and walked toward my car. The rain was still coming down, making the still suburban street shine a glossy black. I turned up my collar as I walked.

In my car I started the motor and turned on the wipers, set the heater on low, and sat some more, looking at the house across the street. The houseguest could have been Bibi and she could have scooted when Abbey's mother told her a detective was looking for her. Perfect. Trying to find her may have made her harder to find.

The universe was a recalcitrant bastard.

I had a west suburban directory in the car with me and I started calling banks on the car phone until I found one that employed Abigail Becker. She worked close to home, at a branch of DePaul Federal right here in Needham, downtown, maybe a mile from her house. I found her there, behind a desk on the customer side of the counter. The sign on the desk said she was Branch Manager. She was a biggish woman, but attractive enough with neat brown hair and blue eyes, and nice smile lines at the corner of her mouth. She didn't look like a lousy housekeeper. She had on a tan tweed suit which fit her well, and a dark brown blouse. That's why she hadn't worn the white panty hose. She would want tan to go with her outfit. She stood as I approached her desk. She would be about Bibi's age, which if they graduated '77, would make her thirty-six.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Ycu Mrs. Becker?" I said.

"Yes, I'm the branch manager. How can I help."

I took out my wallet and showed her my license.

"My name is Spenser," I said.

"I talked with your mother yesterday. I'm looking for Bibi Anaheim, formerly Bibi Costa."

"Mother told me you'd called her. I didn't realize she'd told you how to reach me."

"She didn't," I said.

"Intentionally. But she mentioned your name and said you lived in Needham, and…" I shrugged modestly.

"Elementary."

"Yes, of course, won't you sit down."

I sat.

"You and Bibi were high school friends."

"Yes, earlier than that. We were friends all through school."

"Do you still hear from her?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid. We exchange Christmas cards, really, very little more than that."

"You know where she is now?"

"Well, I gather she's not at home, in Medford?"

"No, would you have any idea where she might be?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't."

"You've not heard from her?"

"No. Not in ages."

She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. I was right. The panty hose were dark tan. The legs were good, too.

"And you have no thoughts where I might find her?"

"No, I'm very sorry, but I really don't."

"Names of any friends she might have contacted?"

She shook her head slowly.

I stood and took one of my business cards out and gave it to her.

"Well, if you do hear from her, or you think of anything that might be useful in finding her, please give me a call."

"Of course," she said and stood and shook hands with me.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

"Me too," I said and went back out into the rain with the collar of my trench coat turned up. In uniform. Driving back to Boston I thought about how she had not once asked why I was looking for Bibi or if she might be in trouble, or any of the questions she might have asked if she really hadn't talked with Bibi. Maybe if I laid low in the weeds for a while and didn't bother Abigail any more, the houseguest, whoever she was, might assume the risk was over and come back.