The Other Woman

10

Gotta love it. Less than a mile from Charlestown, but everything is different. Here on Beacon Hill, cobblestones and gas lamps, home of money and privilege and history, people actually answered their doors. Opened them. Offered Jake coffee. Like this one, the eleventh this morning, they wanted to chat. Wanted to help the police find the Bridge Killer.

Damn. There was no Bridge Killer.

“We don’t think the killings are connected, Mrs. Connaughton,” Jake said, putting his glass of ice water carefully on the dark leather coaster she’d scooted in front of him. Ten A.M. Friday, he’d already had enough coffee. Growing up just a few blocks away, he’d seen a million of these Beacon Hill brownstones: seasonally decorated living rooms, too-long curtains pooled on hardwood floors, fresh flowers.

“No matter what the Register says this morning, ma’am”-he smiled conspiratorially-“there’s no ‘Bridge Killer.’ I’d stake my job on it. They’re trying to scare you into buying papers.”

“Well, they’re succeeding.” The woman, navy trousers, white shirt, heavy necklace, reading glasses on a gold chain, took a sip of whatever filled her teacup. She tapped the newspaper folded on a mahogany side table. “You must admit, it appears to be more than a coincidence, two poor girls killed, both by bridges, both left in the water. Honestly, when was the last time-?” She tilted her head, eyeing Jake. “You really don’t know who they are? Is it true, they weren’t wearing shoes?”

Jake shifted on the leather couch, unbuttoning his tweed sport coat, pulling another sketch from his inside pocket.

“Ma’am? That’s why we’re asking for your help.” He placed one of the colored-pencil sketches, the head shot, facing her on the coffee table. Brown hair, shorter than the Charlestown girl. He called this one the Longfellow girl, since her body was found near the Longfellow Bridge. She was listed on the squad’s case board as “Victim One.” Didn’t seem right, though, to make her just a number.

“Do you recognize her? Brown hair. Dr. Archambault, the medical examiner, says it was professionally colored. ‘Walnut brown number 16,’ apparently, if that means anything to you?”

The woman stared at the drawing. “Have you checked beauty salons?”

Everybody’s an expert. “We’re in the process, ma’am. But meanwhile. Anyone you know have a daughter, supposed to be at college? Maybe she was expected home, never made it?”

The woman was shaking her head. Using one tentative finger, she pulled the drawing toward her, then picked it up, adjusting her reading glasses. “I’m so sorry.” Almost as if she were talking to the drawing. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”

She handed the sketch back to him. Interview over. Jake turned toward the front door, and she followed his lead.

The woman touched his sleeve as he stepped across her threshold. “Do you think the Bridge Killer will do it again?” she asked. “Are we in danger? Should we all stay home?”

“Jane Ryland! How fantastic to see you. Do come in! So glad you could make it this early in the day! You’re calling me Ellie, okay? And you’re Jane.”

Eleanor Gable, dripping exclamation marks, greeted her as if they were long-lost sorority sisters. And what was that accent all about? Locust Valley meets London. Far from the Massachusetts North Shore.

“Thank you, Ellie.” Jane edged through the door into the spacious, window-lined office in Boston’s West End. Gable’s elaborate, expensively framed campaign posters displayed on cream-colored walls looked like Norman Rockwells. Dinner tables. Kids with cops. Ice cream parlors. American flags. Then, still in Rockwell style: Wind farms. Recycling centers. Skateboards and bicycles.

“Nice to see you, too,” Jane added. “I-”

“Sit, sit.” Ellie, interrupting, waved her to a puffily upholstered sofa, caramel colored and elegantly feminine, angled in front of an antique-looking desk. Ellie took the dark wooden desk chair, its cushion covered in crimson silk. “Coffee? Can you believe how well this election is going? We’re so excited about what a difference we can make.”

To the left Jane saw an American flag, ceiling high, set in a brass post. Next to it, the ocean blue and white flag of Massachusetts. On a narrow wooden table, an array of photos. Gable with at least two presidents. A general. Gable arm in arm with a T-shirted little boy. A beach scene, a rainbow of umbrellas on a stretch of white sand. Nantucket?

“Big, big changes,” Gable continued. The soft collar of her tangerine bouclé jacket-Chanel, no question-barely touched the ends of her ash blond pageboy. “That’s what the voters are looking for. Don’t you think?”

Jane flipped open her notebook. She hoped Alex was happy. She sure wasn’t. Eleanor Gable’s office was the last place she wanted to be. After yesterday’s sighting, her mind was still on red-coat woman. At least she’d seen her. But the woman had disappeared. Vanished. Jane had lost her.

So, now, she should be scoping out Lassiter headquarters, showing Archive Gus’s photo, asking if anyone recognized Red Coat.

Jane sneaked a look at her watch. She had to get out of here.

“Interesting, Ellie. No coffee, thank you. My editor at the Register hopes you can give me an in-depth interview. Later.” Jane looked around the room. “Maybe at your home on Beacon Hill? Would that be possible?”

Holly held up the padded brown manila envelope, making sure the address label was aligned exactly between the top and the bottom. Neatness counts. Perfect. She laid it on her dark green blotter, giving it an appreciative pat.

She slid the rest of the padded envelopes into the upper right-hand drawer of her desk, carefully keeping the shrink wrap intact as much as she could. Maybe she should put some clear tape on it? No time.

The left-hand drawer was full of hanging green file folders, each one tabbed, labeled, and dated. She slid them forward, one by one, not giving in to the temptation to look at each and every photo again. When she reached the date she needed, she withdrew an eight by ten, put it into the padded envelope. Her thin white cotton gloves made picking up the glossy paper a little difficult, but she’d never thought it would be easy. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy. And it was going to be so worth it.

She paused, one hand on a green file folder, daring, allowing herself to imagine what it would be like. Knowing what it would be like.

Oh, he would say. You did this for me? You’ve loved me all along, and I never knew it? And now you were ready to sacrifice… She closed her eyes to keep the vision from escaping.

He’d reach out and touch her face, using one finger to trace her cheekbone, move her curls aside, looking at her with those eyes. Ah, my beautiful Hollister, he’d say-he always called her that, Hollister-how could I have let you leave? And how did you know what I needed to be truly happy? My deepest desire? And now, she could actually hear his voice. You’re here, you’ve solved my problem, you’re my deepest-

The apple timer dinged.

Holly blushed, feeling the warmth as she touched her own fingers to her face. Oh, no. No. Now she’d daydreamed her time away. She’d have to make up for it, somehow.

She selected the final photos, quickly, perfectly, with the one on top the newest.

From yesterday. That nice man had offered to use her camera to take the photo she’d been struggling to get on her own. So it really looked just right; they looked so happy together. It must have been obvious-she could see the flashes from other cameras, and even those bright television lights, as she smiled her perfect smile.

She felt her mouth practicing it, even now. Oh, yes. It was just right. He could not fail to love her. And very, very soon.

Now she had to make two final decisions. Which mailbox. And when.