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Chapter 6

“Yeah, sure,” Liz thought but did not say aloud. Instead, she thanked Kinnaird warmly and headed into the still-falling snow. Thanks to its proximity to the police station, the parking lot had been plowed again. The Tracer’s tires made it through the small mound the plow had pushed against them. It was a greater challenge to drive through the light industry and warehouse area that stood between Brighton and Gravesend Street in Allston, where no municipal snowplow had passed through since the storm’s start. Fortunately, Sal Mione of Mione’s Towing and Plow Services had cleared not just the driveway at Liz’s place, but—as he often did when the city plow neglected the area—a single lane of Gravesend Street to her place.

He’d never accept a monetary tip, but Liz made a mental note to give him the box of PG Tips tea and chocolate digestive biscuits she’d bought for him a few days previously. She knew they were comfort foods reminiscent of his boyhood. Although he bore an Italian name, he spoke in an appealing Cockney accent, having grown up near the Angel Tube Station in London. Corny as it was, she meant it when she told him he was an angel. Without him, she’d probably lose her job waiting for plows that cleared school, retail, and residential areas in order of priority.

Prudence seemed bound to trip Liz as the reporter entered the little house under the huge billboard. Her dish was half-filled with dry food, but the cat loved her evening treat of gravy-laden canned meat. Liz fed the cat and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. Then she sat down in her green chair facing the flaming gas fireplace, put her feet up on her hassock, pulled the purple and white afghan over her knees, and spread open The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories she’d acquired in Worcester. Turning on a CD of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies, she read Susan Glaspell’s story “A Jury of Her Peers” from start to finish.

The story was as melancholy as Satie’s first Gymnopédie. A woman has murdered her husband. But while the police blunder around looking at big, obvious clues, such as the rope he has been strangled with, the farmers’ wives see the significance of unfinished work in their friend’s kitchen. They recognize that an open sugar bag beside a dish means the woman was interrupted in her work. And they find heartrending evidence that their friend was driven to kill her husband. The men see the women’s concerns as “trifles,” but these trifles turn out to be the keys to the mystery.

Liz turned off the third Gymnopédie—a dissonant, jarring piece—and leaned back in her chair, pondering what she’d read. The Glaspell story was a favorite of Ellen Johansson. Had it come to mind for her during the incident in her kitchen?

Liz didn’t like to entertain the notion, but suppose Ellen had perpetrated a crime, as Millie Wright in Glaspell’s story had done? How would the insights from the story help her to hide it? Would she slash her own face and fling blood from it onto the countertop? This would go far toward suggesting she was a victim of someone else. And what if Ellen had been attacked by an assailant? How would the Glaspell story help her in that case? She might try to shed her attacker’s blood to leave evidence for those who sought to help her. Much rested on the analysis of the blood, information that had not yet been released. But perhaps the scene of the crime would hold additional clues.

Liz got up from her chair, picked up her envelope of photos, turned on the bright light over her own kitchen counter, and spread out DeZona’s prints there. For Glaspell, it was an open bag of sugar beside a partly filled sugar bowl that started the wheels turning toward an understanding of the crime. But in Ellen’s kitchen everything looked so well organized that the only thing out of place was the blood splattered over the ingredients.

The blackboard in the photo caught Liz’s eye again. “FORGET ME NOT,” Ellen had written in apparent haste. But the hastiness of the writing could have been feigned. It was hard to imagine an assailant standing by while she wrote a note to her loved ones, even a three-word message. Did those words suggest Ellen intended to leave? Could they indicate she was contemplating taking her own life?

Liz matched the ingredients listed on the blackboard with those in the dishes. There were the chocolate chips and the coconut and other, unlisted ingredients, too. Only the M&Ms were not poured out into a custard dish. But then, Liz thought, no one would decorate delicate spritz cookies with M&Ms. No doubt the M&Ms were stored away for another baking project or to serve in a candy dish at the holidays.

What else was in the photographs? Three poinsettia plants, dolled up with big bows and labeled with tags, stood to one side on the counter. Whose names were on them? Liz took a magnifying glass out of her desk to examine the photos more closely. One tag was out of sight. Another read “Margaret.” And the last read “Ms. Winters.” Laura.

Liz picked up the phone and dialed. Laura answered.

“Yes, Veronica gave me the plant before I left. She would have given it to me at the aftercare holiday party, but she was being taken to her grandmother’s early.”

“Could you set the plant aside where no one will handle it? And if you have the tag that was on it, please save that, too. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

“I don’t have the tag, Liz. I guess it got lost in the shuffle. With everything that was going on, I was surprised Veronica thought to give me a gift at all.”

“Never mind. The plant is the main thing.”

Liz looked up the Green Briar in the telephone book and called the bar. She could hear Irish music still being played there. The bartender told her to hold on while he fetched Cormac.

“Kinnaird here. May I help you?”

“It’s Liz Higgins again. I may have something useful—a poinsettia plant that was on the counter at the crime scene. It was given as a gift to the babysitter who took it home to Brighton. Not very far from the Green Briar.”

“It’s strange that it was not sprayed with luminol. You’re in luck. I’ve got my car. If she’s willing, I could stop by and collect it.”

Liz provided Kinnaird with the address, phoned Laura to have her wait up for him, and decided it was time for her to get some rest. She changed into a long T-shirt and snuggled under the covers, recalling, as she dozed off, the Worcester book dealer’s words: “This woman flies from home but knows any loose ends she leaves will be seen as significant—if a woman gets the chance to look things over.”

The sound of snowplows scraping along the Massachusetts Turnpike awoke Liz more than once in the night. Each time, she turned over and returned to sleep until one pre-dawn noisemaker was just too much for Prudence, who dashed around the small abode in a frenzy, making Liz laugh herself awake. In her mad movements, the cat had skittered across DeZona’s photos, causing one to drop to the floor. Flipping her fireplace switch to fill the room with flickering light, Liz crossed the room to pick up the photo. Turning on her kitchen counter light and the stove burner under her kettle, she measured some coffee into a filter and took another look at the photo.

This one was a shot of the Johanssons’ living room. In it could be seen part of the book bearing an Arabic title. The kitchen crime scene had naturally become the focus of investigators’ and reporters’ attention. Had anyone taken a hard look at the living room, too?

The kettle whistled in concert with a scraping sound in her driveway. Sal Mione had arrived to plow away the last of the snowfall. Pulling on jeans and a sweater, Liz rushed to her front door.

Opening the door, she called out, “Got a minute?” to the plow driver.

“For you, of course!” he replied.

“I’ve got something for you,” Liz said. “Hold on, I’ll bring it out to you.”

Grabbing the plastic bag of PG Tips tea and chocolate digestive biscuits, she stepped into her boots and put on a coat before wading out into some nine inches of snow. Handing the package in through the plow driver’s rolled-down window, she saw copies of the World and Banner on the seat beside him.

“Some fire,” Sal Mione said. “Bloody shame,” he added, nodding at DeZona’s grim front-page photo. As Liz had expected, the Banner’s front page was entirely consumed with the fire story, headed “INFERNO” in bold caps.

The broadsheet World had room for more Page One articles. She could only see below the fold of the front page. It contained an article about the fire, which World editors had not chosen as their lead story; a photo of an exhausted-looking fire chief; and an article headed, “Blackboard Message Muddles Missing Mother Inquiry.”

“Don’t you get enough of the news?” Sal Mione said to Liz.

“Never! I’ve been reporting on that missing mom, so I’m interested in what the World reporter turned up.”

“It’s all yours. I’ve already read it,” Sal said, handing her the paper. “And thanks for the tea and biscuits. Much obliged.”

Back in her house, Liz read Nancy Knight’s coverage of the Johansson case. Apparently the World had put Mick Lichen on the fire story, handing Knight the Johansson assignment.

“Forensic evidence and a crime scene message leave investigators puzzled in the case of missing Newton mother, Ellen Johansson, 34.” Knight wrote. “‘We have to consider the possibility that Mrs. Johansson planned to leave home,’ said Newton police chief Anthony Warner yesterday.

“According to Medical Examiner Barney Williams, tests on blood found in the upscale kitchen reveal two people were injured there. And a message written on Johansson’s kitchen memo board suggests she was saying goodbye to her husband, Erik Johansson, 37, and eight-year-old daughter, Veronica.

“‘FORGET ME NOT,’ the message reads. Warner said the words, spelled out in chalk under a grocery list, are currently under examination by a handwriting expert.”

“I can’t believe she would walk out on Veronica,” Liz exclaimed aloud, making Prudence’s ears perk up. “There must be another explanation.”

Liz dug the crumpled Banner page out of her purse and smoothed it out on her kitchen counter next to DeZona’s photos. Under the “PINCH OF BLOOD” headline and Dick Manning’s byline, she read, “Newton cops can’t fathom why a well-heeled wife and mother would scrawl an exit line on her kitchen blackboard before leaving her family in the dark about her whereabouts. ‘Seems weird to me,’ said Newton police officer Dan Atwood, who was first on the scene after Ellen Johansson, 34, disappeared from the $640,000 home she shared with her husband Erik, 37, and the couple’s daughter Veronica, age 8.

“‘It’s hard to believe any perp forcing a woman from her home would wait for her to write a message to her hubby and kid,’ Atwood added.

“The three-word plea, ‘FORGET ME NOT,’ appeared at the bottom of a grocery list written on a blackboard in the Johanssons’ state-of-the-art kitchen where, two days ago, the couple’s third-grader came home from school to find flaked coconut and other baking ingredients splashed with blood on the Italian marble countertop.

“The missing woman’s husband, an environmental consultant, has been questioned several times by police. ‘If she wanted to leave us, why would she set up a baking project?’ the distraught husband reportedly asked police. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’”

Setting aside the Banner page, Liz realized Dick Manning had failed to contact the Newton police chief. He was also scooped by the World on the blood typing. No doubt he dropped the Johansson story like a hot potato when the fire broke out, knowing the blaze would have first priority in the eyes of Banner editors—particularly if the fire produced fatalities.

Liz turned to her phone to leave a message for DeZona and found the message light blinking. A call must have come in while she was outside delivering treats to the plow driver. She pressed the incoming message button.

“I’ve got those snapshots for you,” DeZona’s voice said. “That’s all they are. Tourist pix of New York City. And pretty lousy, too. Only one of them shows any eye for a decent camera angle. I’ll put them in my cubby so you can pick them up whenever you’re in. I’m beat. The bucks are good but the hours aren’t when you do too much overtime. I’m heading home before I drop dead on my feet.”

Liz looked at the clock. Six a.m. DeZona must have been called in early. While her head swam with questions and avenues she might pursue to answer them, Liz took a shower. Afterward, she sat in front of her fire wrapped in a terrycloth robe, waiting for her shoulder-length auburn curls to dry in the flickering heat.

Half an hour later, the phone rang.

“Liz? This is Laura. I couldn’t sleep last night so I went to work early. Plus, I thought it would be a good idea if I looked up Veronica’s emergency information card before my boss comes in. I’ve got Mrs. Swenson’s information for you.”

Liz took down the Wellesley address and telephone number and asked who else was listed on the card as authorized to take care of the eight-year-old in an emergency.

“It says, ‘Elizabeth Seaport, friend’,” Laura said, giving Liz the phone number. “Actually, I recognize that name. She’s the parent of another aftercare kid, Rhoda Seaport. Rhoda is a year younger than Veronica. There’s one more thing,” Laura added. “In the ‘Additional Information’ section of the card it says, ‘Under no circumstances to be picked up by taxi or hired vehicle.’ That’s dated December 18, this year.”

“That’s the day Ellen disappeared. I wonder what that’s all about?”

“Me, too. I hope this was helpful. By the way, that forensics guy did pick up the poinsettia. Before he left, he looked the whole thing over with a magnifying glass, just like Sherlock Holmes. I kid you not! It was all Becca, Sue, and I could do to keep ourselves from bursting out laughing. He asked us for a dry cleaning bag to put it in, but we didn’t have one so we gave him a garbage bag instead. He said you’d hear from him soon.”

“Thanks, Laura. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“No problem. Would you let me know what develops, though? It’s all such a mystery and I’m really worried about Veronica.”

“Sure thing. I’m worried about her, and about Ellen, too.”

Hanging up the phone, Liz took another look at her countertop. Picking up the Ziploc bag containing Ellen’s lipstick, the hair band, and taxi receipt, she dialed the number for Cormac Kinnaird.

“You have reached the office of Dr. Cormac Kinnaird. This is December twentieth. This morning, I will be testifying in Concord District Court. Please leave your message and I will get back to you at the first opportunity.”

Surprised that Kinnaird would reveal his schedule in a phone message, Liz recorded her own message for him, letting him know she had more materials relating to the Johansson case.

Next, she phoned Elizabeth Seaport, reaching yet another answering machine. This one had a message with a child’s voice advising callers, “You have reached the Seaport family. Please leave us a message!” as a dog barked in the background.

As Liz began to leave a message, a woman picked up the Seaport line. “Just screening my calls, ever since I had a friend disappear,” she volunteered.

“That’s just what I wanted to discuss with you,” Liz explained. “I’m a Banner reporter who’s working on the case. . .”

“I don’t want to talk with reporters!”

“No! Please wait. I’m also acquainted with the family, and I’m truly concerned about Ellen and particularly Veronica.”

“Oh, you’re the one who took her around to the malls, aren’t you? Veronica was so proud when her Santa ratings made the paper.”

“That’s right. I was at the Johanssons’ soon after Ellen disappeared and I promised Veronica I’d find her mom. To do that, I need your help.”

“Look, I’m just about to take Rhoda—that’s my daughter—to school. Then I was going to wrap presents while Rhoda is out of the house.”

“I’m great at wrapping. How about I save you some time? We’ll wrap gifts together while you share some insights about Ellen?”

“Well, it does seem sort of callous to go on with Christmas preparations while she’s missing. And Ellen spoke so highly of you. All right. Come on over in about a half an hour. I live two doors down from Ellen, in the center-entrance colonial. Our shrubs are covered with white Christmas lights and there’s a reindeer loaded with lights on the lawn. Kinda kitschy, I admit, especially for this neighborhood, but the kids love it.”

“See you then. Thank you!”

Liz lingered near the phone, tempted to place a call to Olga Swenson. But she decided to put that off until she’d spoken with Elizabeth Seaport. Very possibly, Ellen’s friend and neighbor would have insights or information that would smooth the way toward an interview with Veronica’s grandmother. Instead, Liz phoned the Banner and asked to be connected with the city desk.”

When Jared Conneely answered, Liz dared to hope Esther O’Faolin was still in charge at this early hour. She was in luck.

“Listen, Esther,” Liz said. “I’ve got some lines of inquiry I’d like to follow on the missing mom case.”

“You know, Dick has the contacts for that story.”

“Let him chase his. But I’ve got some promising community contacts I’d like to pursue. I’ve also got fewer assumptions than Dick and, for that matter, the World reporters who are covering this case.”

“Let’s be clear on this. What do you mean by ‘assumptions’?”

“They look at her kitchen memo and see it as a goodbye message. They look at the blood and think she put it there on purpose. I’m not ready to draw conclusions so early in the game.”

“I’m the first to admit that the reporter who works without blinders will see the most in a story. But you may be wearing blinders without knowing it, Liz. Have you considered the possibility that you may be looking for a way to exonerate a person who deserted her husband and child, just because you knew and liked her? Or maybe you bonded with her daughter so well that you are hoping against hope you can save the day for her.”

“You’re on target on both counts, Esther. Sure, I’d like to save the day, as you put it. But more important than that, I’d like to tell the truth here—even if it is ugly. I have some avenues that might lead me toward that truth, and I’d like to have a day to pursue them.”

“Well, you know it’s really up to Dermott to decide where to send you when he gets in at ten. But if you’re already engaged in some reporting that can’t wait until then, I guess I can authorize it. What’s up?”

Liz paused. Then she said, “I plan to help Ellen Johansson’s neighbor wrap Christmas gifts while she shares insights about her friend. I have an appointment to arrive at her house in a half-hour.”

Esther groaned. “That hardly sounds urgent enough for me to pull strings with Dermott on your behalf when he gets in.”

“My thought is that she’ll give me enough insight about the family to smooth my way to an interview with Veronica’s grandmother.”

“OK, I’ll give you an inch, but you’ve got to win your mile. You go play Santa’s elf for a short while. Then, if you get an appointment with the grandmother, you can have the rest of the day on this. That would free up Dick for the fire story follow-up. If you don’t nail an interview with the grandma, I expect you to cover whatever Dermott has in mind for you. I’ll authorize overtime for your early start today with the expectation that you’ll put in a full day for Dermott—on the Johansson story or something else.”

“You won’t regret this, Esther. Thanks.”

New York City, December 16, 2000

“Stereotypes!” Ellen thought as she stood on the curbside by the World Trade Center. “Here I am feeling bad about any prejudice I might be feeling and, all the while, that cabbie is making assumptions about me. Just because I’m a blonde, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Well, I showed him!” she thought to herself, smiling.

Looking at her watch, she realized the cabbie had been a good one. She was early for her date. There was enough time to document the occasion in photographs. Taking out her camera, she pointed it at the towers, only to realize immediately that they were too large to frame in her lens. In the hope of getting a slightly better perspective, Ellen crossed the street where she joined a Japanese tour group that was also attempting to capture the scene on film.

Even from this perspective, it remained impossible to capture the full buildings in a single photo, but Ellen could get a sense of their size by having pedestrians and traffic in the foreground, looking dwarfed by a fraction of one tower. Seeing her with a camera, the Japanese tourists asked if she would photograph their group in the scene. When she assented, they provided her with five cameras. Using one camera after another—all but one equipped with much better wide-angle lenses than she had on her camera—she shot five photos of the patiently smiling group. As a thank-you gesture, one of the tourists offered to photograph Ellen, using her camera. When he recognized the limitations of her lens, he made the effort of walking half a block down a side street in order to capture more of the scene. Ellen walked with him so that she would be in the photograph’s foreground.

On her way back toward the towers, she shot another photo of her own, this one with a street-corner vendor of roasted chestnuts shown in the foreground. This shot particularly pleased her, since she saw it as a scene that brought together timeless and contemporary New York.

Snapping the lens cap onto her camera, she reached the corner as the WALK light invited her to cross. She stepped off the curb with a crowd and strode across the street toward her long-awaited rendezvous.