Front Page Teaser

Chapter 2

Liz was no stranger to the common at Newton City Hall. Composed of a spreading lawn, duck pond, and handsome oaks, it was just the kind of suburban site Dermott had made her news beat. Located at the start of the Boston Marathon’s infamous uphill stretch known as Heartbreak Hill, it was the ideal place to interview spectators and faltering runners for marathon-related human-interest stories. Runners know Heartbreak Hill is the place where the race is won or lost, but, even so, it was miles from the finish line where front-page stories are made. In the summer, the common was also the site of farmers’ markets and crafts fairs that, for Liz, promised more features than hard news.

“Still,” Liz reminded herself, “you never know where you’ll find breaking news.”

The last time she set her eyes on this property, Newton’s Mayor Giancarlo Ficarelli made news by dancing with a man dressed as the Nabisco fig. It was the 110th anniversary of the creation of the Fig Newton cookie, a confection that had been named for the well-heeled Boston suburb.

“Come to think of it,” Liz recalled, as she parked her green Mercury Tracer on Commonwealth Avenue, “the story was a front-pager.” That was thanks to a hilarious photo of Ficarelli and the fig in free-fall from the dance platform, a tumble that occurred when the over-enthusiastic mayor stepped too lively to a rendition of “New York, New York” by the Newton North High School’s Northern Heights singing group. The lyrics, slightly altered for the occasion, went, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, so here’s to you New-ton, New-TON!”

Recalling the headline, “NEWTON BIGWIG FELLS FIG NEWTON,” Liz smiled and scanned the scene for any sign of the fleet-footed Ficarelli. He was nowhere to be seen, but the loudspeakers, blaring the tune to “Hava Nagila,” were impossible to ignore. Liz wondered what self-respecting citizen would participate in the mayor’s quirky notion of celebrating the Jewish holiday. Rounding some shrubs, she received her answer. Led by the mayor, some thirty preschoolers dutifully attempted to imitate the mayor’s dance steps as the line of snow-boot–clad dancers wound its way through the property. Ficarelli only needed a flute to complete his image as the Pied Piper of Newton.

As carried away by the music as he was during the fig fiasco, the mayor seemed oblivious to the fact that he was leading the diminutive dancers straight toward the controversial crèche. But everyone else, including the preschoolers’ parents, assorted dog walkers, and the Banner photographer René DeZona, could see the mayor’s mistake. DeZona zoomed in eagerly as the mayor, who was looking over his shoulder at dancing preschoolers, slid on some dog droppings and ploughed straight into the Holy Family, scattering them all over the slippery scene.

“You have to hand it to the guy,” Liz thought as she watched Ficarelli’s feet fly out from under him and point straight up at the sky. “When he falls, it’s picture perfect.”

This time he outdid himself and delivered a quote, too.

“Holy shit!” the mayor declared.

Picture and quote might have made Page One—if the commotion on Newton City Hall Common had ended then and there.

But it didn’t.

Before Ficarelli could stand up and dust the snow off his coat, before the preschoolers’ parents could suppress their laughter long enough to round up their children, a kind of keening sound rent the atmosphere. Dogs on leashes howled in response and strained at their collars as a coatless, small child ran straight to the center of the common, looked frantically around her, and then threw herself into Liz’s arms.

“Somebody bleeded all over my kitchen,” the girl said, shivering. “Where’s my mommy?’ she cried.

“Veronica!” Liz exclaimed. And she hugged the child close. Taking off her own coat and wrapping it around the frantic youngster, she added, “Don’t worry, Veronica. We’ll find your mom. I promise.”

Briskly crossing the common, a policeman approached.

“Dan Atwood,” the officer said, naming himself. “What seems to be the problem here?” he demanded. “Where do you think you’re going with that girl?”

“I’m taking her home. She lives on the side street there, just across Commonwealth Avenue. I’m acquainted with her family.”

“I can’t authorize you to do that,” the officer said.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Liz replied, “because I plan to do it anyway. Can’t you see she’s ill-dressed and in shock?”

Taking in Liz’s own coatless state, Atwood softened. “All right, take my jacket,” he said. “Let’s take her back to her house together.”

“Thanks,” Liz said, gratefully taking the proffered jacket. “It’s okay, honey, we’re taking you home,” she said to Veronica, as Atwood took the child in his arms.

But Veronica wailed.

The child’s evident terror at returning to her house erased any doubts Liz might have held when Veronica first spoke of her bloodied kitchen. But there was nothing to do but see the scene for herself.

“We won’t make you go in the kitchen,” she promised as the trio set off across the wide avenue, with photographer DeZona following at a discreet distance. “We’re just going to look for your mom and dad,” she explained.

“How do you know this family?” Atwood asked Liz. “I need you to identify yourself.”

Liz hesitated. Should she let on that she was a Banner reporter so soon? He might then bar her entry to the Johanssons’ house.

Veronica spoke up. “She’s my friend. She took me to see Santa!” she said.

“My name is Liz Higgins,” the reporter added and scanned Atwood’s face to see if her name rang a bell. Apparently he did not read the Beantown Banner deeply enough to recognize the byline. When they came to the unlocked door of the Johanssons’ house, he flung it open for Liz, then he carried Veronica over the threshold.

“Please don’t make me go in there!” the child cried.

“We won’t, Veronica. We won’t,” said Liz as Atwood handed the child over to her. “We’ll just get warm in the living room.”

Liz patted Veronica’s head as the policeman barged through the dining room toward the back of the house. A minute later she heard him radio Newton Police headquarters. He gave the address and added, “Apparent B&E here. Blood all over. Send the crime scene unit right away.”

DeZona stepped in and snapped reporter and child. “Sorry for startling you,” he said as Veronica renewed her crying.

“Get outta here!” Atwood snarled when DeZona stepped into the kitchen.

DeZona did, but not before taking the shot that was bound to push the mayor’s spectacular fall far off the Beantown Banner’s front page.

“I want my mommy,” Veronica insisted.

“Let’s see what we can do to find her,” Liz said. “While Officer Atwood looks around the house, why don’t we do some detective work? We’ll write down our clues in my notebook, OK?”

Veronica nodded as Liz began to take notes. Liz knew she had just minutes to spare before Atwood discovered she was a reporter or brought in a youth officer to take charge of the child. Then, too, although the Boston World had not thought the Newton City Hall hora worthy of their reporters’ time, no doubt they’d be onto the breaking news soon. Liz hoped the youth officer would take Veronica in hand before the World’s best and brightest darkened the door.

Avoiding direct mention of the kitchen, Liz asked, “When did you come home to the house, sweetie?”

“After school,” Veronica said. “I’m allowed to walk home on Tuesdays because that’s our afternoon.”

Liz recalled Ellen Johansson’s readiness to accompany her and Veronica to visit the first of seven Santas on a Tuesday afternoon. Ellen had said that was her “mother-and-daughter afternoon.” A librarian, Ellen worked one evening per week, while her husband, Erik, took over childcare, so she could have an afternoon each week to devote to her child. A protective mother, Ellen told Liz she only allowed her daughter to serve as the Banner’s Santa rater because the child dreamed of becoming a reporter, and because Liz was known to the after-school teacher whose program Veronica attended four afternoons a week. But even so, Ellen had insisted on tagging along on the first Santa visit.

Liz recalled how Ellen had paused as soon as the trio entered the mall and asked her daughter to look up at a sleigh and reindeer suspended from the ceiling.

“Do you notice how you can see that from almost anywhere in the mall?” Ellen had asked Veronica. “And do you see that there is a desk right underneath it where the mall lady is selling gift certificates? If we become separated, I want you to look for the sleigh and go there. You could also ask a lady with children to take you to the gift certificate desk. Remember, always ask for help from a lady who has children with her, okay?”

At the time, Liz complimented Ellen on the levelheaded advice and promised she would provide similar advice at every mall she visited with Veronica. Now, in the family’s living room, she returned her attention to the safety-conscious mom’s very bewildered daughter.

Still avoiding direct mention of Ellen, Liz asked, “Did you walk to school today, too? And what were you planning to do this afternoon?”

“No, my mom drove me,” Veronica said. “She says there’s too much traffic in the morning for me to walk. We were going to bake Christmas cookies after school. The kind you squish through the tube and decorate with chocolate.”

“Spritz cookies. My favorite!” Liz said, certain that rushing the child would be a big mistake. “Did your mom seem the same as usual this morning?”

Veronica wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean, Liz?”

Liz did not want to plant thoughts of any kind in the child’s mind.

“Just think carefully,” she said. “It will help us with our detective work if you noticed anything different about your mom today.”

Veronica rubbed her freckled nose in concentration. “I remember something! She didn’t wash her hair this morning. And she didn’t put on lipstick. My mom always takes a shower in the morning. And she always puts on lipstick. Every single day.”

When Liz wrote the information in the notebook, Veronica looked encouraged.

“Is that a clue? Will it help you find my mommy?”

“Everything you remember is a clue, Veronica,” Liz assured her. “Now, can you tell me if your mom did anything special lately?”

“Yeah, she was so happy to meet Nadia in New York City. They had lunch on the top of the tallest building in the world! I wanted to go there, too. But I couldn’t. I had school. But she took pictures!”

“Did you see the pictures?” Liz asked.

“No. She was gonna take the film to the camera store today. There it is!” Veronica said, pointing to a plastic film can on the telephone table. “Do you think there’s a clue in it? Would you take it to the camera store so we can see?”

Liz hesitated.

“Please?” Veronica begged.

“Okay, honey,” she said, and pocketed the film.

Hearing Atwood—who had been rummaging around upstairs—approach the room, Liz also pocketed her reporter’s notebook.

“Let’s call your dad,” she said, although she doubted she’d get the call through before Atwood entered the room. Fortunately, the policeman passed by and headed down the basement stairs instead. “How about you remind me of his number?” Liz asked. She had a record of Erik Johansson’s work number in her newsroom ATEX machine. Ellen had given it to her in case she could not be reached if something went wrong during the Santa visits. But Liz did not have the information with her.

“I can dial it!” Veronica said proudly. And she punched in the numbers with painstaking care, at a speed that made it easy for Liz to commit it to memory.

“I’d better talk to your dad first,” Liz said, hastening to take the receiver.

“Oh, yeah,” Veronica said, as the call went through. “I remember something else. The phone rang a lot last night. Over and over again.”

“Environmental Solutions. Erik Johansson here,” Veronica’s dad said over the phone.

“Mr. Johansson, this is Liz Higgins, the woman who took Veronica to visit the Santas,” Liz said, carefully avoiding any mention of the Banner as she heard Atwood come up the stairs.

“You can call me Erik,” Johansson said in a friendly tone. “What’s up? Do you need Veronica to rate New Year’s Eve noisemakers now?”

“I’m so sorry that’s not the case,” Liz said. “Veronica is okay, don’t worry. I’m with her at your house. But I have to tell you Ellen’s not home and there are signs of violence in your kitchen. Do you have any idea where Ellen might be?”

At the mention of the kitchen, Veronica let out a wail. “Daddy, Daddy, I want to talk to my daddy!”

“What?” Erik said. “I should have stayed home. I knew something wasn’t right. I’d better call the police.”

“They’re already here.”

“I’m coming home,” Erik said, hanging up before Veronica could say a word to him.

And before anyone else could, either. That included Atwood, youth officer Grace Houghton, and two crime scene officers who all burst into the Johanssons’ living room at the same time.

“Who were you talking to?” Atwood demanded.

“The husband,” Liz said. “He’s on his way from Lexington.”

“This is Liz Higgins, a family friend,” Atwood told the youth officer.

“The Banner reporter?” the officer asked. Apparently, she read the features about malls and dancing figs. But she was not amused. “Some coincidence that you’re a ‘family friend,’” she said cynically. “Why’d you let her in, Dan?” she asked Atwood.

“I had no idea she was a reporter,” he said, chagrined. “What do you think you’re up to?” he demanded, turning to Liz.

Again, Veronica saved the day. “She’s my friend,” she said. “We went to see the Santas!”

And then Veronica blew it.

“We’re going to solve the case. We wrote clues on the pad. We’re gonna find my mom.”

“Outta here!” Atwood barked at Liz. “And you, too!” he added, to the World’s whippersnapper reporter Mick Lichen, who poked his head through the door at that moment.

“I really do know this family,” Liz said. “Please let me stay with Veronica until her dad arrives.”

“No way,” Atwood said, taking her arm.

“Don’t take Liz away!” Veronica said, clinging to her.

“I have to go for now, honey,” Liz said, without hurrying to extricate herself.

Wondering when she would gain entrée again, Liz scanned the room. She’d been there eight times before, once to have tea with Ellen, once to pick up mother and daughter for the first Santa-seeking foray, and six times more to collect Veronica at the door. Now, while dawdling on the sofa with Veronica clinging to her for comfort, Liz examined her surroundings. Much remained as she remembered it. Numerous bookshelves were packed with women’s fiction, books about explorers and naturalists, some mystery novels, and several memoirs about women who live “under the veil” in the Middle East. Liz remembered making conversation with Ellen about a shelf of older books including Charles Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis, Beryl Markham’s West with the Night, Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, and Susan Glaspell’s A Jury of Her Peers. Ellen had said these volumes were her treasures, since they were signed first editions.

“I’ve read some of these books over and over again,” Ellen had said. “Here I am, a suburban wife and mom. You might expect me to be more interested in Martha Stewart’s decorating books or novels about suburban angst, all of which are hot with our Newton Free Library patrons. But I guess my house is as decorated as it ever will be and I’m too in love with my husband to have a taste for tales of adultery in the suburbs. Picking up The Spirit of St. Louis, she had mused, “I suppose I’m an adventurer at heart, but too comfortable with my husband and daughter to indulge that part of me. Still, did you know, when Charles Lindbergh feared he’d fall asleep at the controls of his plane, he dipped The Spirit of St. Louis so close to the waves of the Atlantic that he could feel sea spray on his face? Now that’s living on the edge!”

“What about the Virginia Woolf?” Liz recalled inquiring.

“On the surface, the Woolf doesn’t seem like it’s in the same category, does it?” Ellen had said. “Mrs. Dalloway is a kind of stay-at-home, isn’t she? But the world comes to her, and when she crosses the road to buy flowers for a dinner party, she’s as intensely alive as Lindbergh was with the sea spray in his face. As for the Susan Glaspell, she has real insight into…”

Thanks to Veronica spilling tea, Ellen never completed her thought on that unfamiliar author. Now Veronica’s current distress allowed Liz to look around the Johanssons’ living room just a little bit longer. Were there any signs of struggle here? No. Nothing seemed to be in disarray. The open book splayed pages-down on an armchair did suggest a reader had been interrupted, especially since there was a bookmark and a half-empty cup of tea on the nearby side table. But this was the house of readers where books were no doubt often left ready to pick up again. Was it fair to assume it was Ellen’s book? The bone china teacup with its delicate pattern looked likely to be chosen by a woman for her drink. What was the title of the open book?

Standing up at the urging of Atwood, Liz could see the book’s title plainly. But Liz could not tell what it said, since it was spelled out in Arabic.

Assuring Veronica she would see her later, Liz crossed the room in the direction of the kitchen. Atwood need not have been on the alert, because as soon as she headed that way, Veronica cried out, “Don’t go in the kitchen!”

As a result, Liz only got as far as the doorway to the dining room, where she noticed the glass door to the built-in china cabinet was slightly ajar. Inside, a set of perfectly lined-up teacups and saucers lacked not just the cup and saucer she saw in the living room but another cup, too. Perhaps if and when Ellen was interrupted in her reading, she had invited her visitor to join her in a cup of tea.

At Atwood’s urging, Liz made her way to the vestibule where she pulled gloves out of her pocket and purposely dropped her keys on the floor. This gave her the chance to stoop down and examine something metallic on the floor next to the umbrella stand. It was a woman’s lipstick. Beside the lipstick lay a dime and an elastic hair band. Liz picked them up. Rising slowly, she looked into the up-ended umbrella in the stand. Sure enough, something had fallen into it, too. Snapping up the scrap of paper, Liz took the coat the youth officer handed her, and made her exit into a suburban front yard that was alive with reporters.

There, World reporter Mick Lichen was reduced to taking down low crime statistics rattled off by a flustered Ficarelli, while television crews zoomed in on neighbors who echoed each other’s sentiments:

“Such a wonderful mother.”

“Great neighbors.”

“How could this happen here?”

Liz hurried as quickly as the icy conditions would allow back to her green Mercury Tracer. As she neared her car, she saw Banner colleague Dick Manning draw up in his retro-fitted Mustang.

“I’ve got this one, Dick,” Liz said, surprising the guy who was as well known for his front-page bylines as he was for his sexual conquests. “If DeZona’s still here, you might get some quotes from neighbors and have René shoot their photos. But don’t delay him too much, please. I need to see his kitchen pix.”

As Liz waved goodbye, Dick appeared dumbfounded. Knowing this could not last, Liz could not help gloating as she made the six-mile drive back to Banner Square. It was an unfamiliar and welcome experience.