Fool Me Once (11 page)

Olivia gathered up the loose pages and fit them snugly between the covers of the diary. She wrapped two rubber bands around the little book, then sealed it in an envelope and shoved it as far back as it would go in the bottom drawer of the desk.

Her eyes burning, Olivia walked out of the office and into the bathroom, where she washed her hands under hot water. She scrubbed her fingers and the backs of her hands with a nailbrush. Now her hands were burning as well. She staggered toward the kitchen, looked around in a daze.
Why did I come in here?
She made coffee, more to have something to do than anything else.

The dogs circled Olivia's feet. She tried to smile at them. All they wanted was to be loved, fed, and kept warm. “Okay, we have a lot of meat loaf left from last night. I'll warm it up for you.” The little dogs gobbled it down. Alice burped. Olivia burst out laughing.

Outside, the day was gray and dismal. More snow was probably coming.

Don't think about that miserable diary or the miserable person who wrote it. Make plans to go to New Jersey. Call Mr. Hutchins. Call the airlines and a rental car service.

She did all of the above. She managed to get a 7:00
A.M
. flight to Newark the following morning with a return flight at 7:00
P.M
. Avis guaranteed a Ford Taurus for twenty-four hours. Mr. Hutchins promised to dog-sit and agreed to stay at the house until her return. He would arrive at five o'clock in the morning. The only thing left to do was to go back on the computer to MapQuest and print out directions to Jill Laramie's house.

Somehow or other, she managed to while away the rest of the day by going grocery shopping, dropping off and picking up her dry cleaning, and stopping at the pet store for some new dog toys with squeakers inside and some rawhide chews. At the last minute she picked up a fifty-pound bag of kibble she knew the dogs weren't going to eat. But she bought it anyway.

On the way home, she stopped at Violino's Italian Restaurant to buy her dinner, including a side order of garlic bread. Her last stop was the liquor store, where she bought a bottle of plum brandy for Mr. Hutchins and some beer for Jeff, in case he stopped by in the next few days.

Olivia was putting the last of her groceries away when Jeff called. He sounded tired. She offered him a brief run-down on Adrian Ames's diary and her plans to go to New Jersey the following day. “I'll be home around nine tomorrow evening if you want to come out.”

“Okay, I'll bring dinner. Be careful, Olivia. When it comes to money, people change. If they feel threatened by you, anything can happen. Just be alert and careful.”

“Okay,
Daaad
,” Olivia drawled.

“I think I missed you today, Olivia.”

Olivia's hand went to her heart. She felt suddenly flustered. “You did?” What a brilliant comeback that was!

“Yes. I'm sitting here working on this confounded brief. I've written the same thing four times, and it still doesn't make sense. And last night I dreamed about that dog Brutus chasing me around the Tidal Basin, and Cecil was chasing him. Would you like to go out to dinner Wednesday night? I'll make plans to stay over. How's Cecil?”

“Are you asking me for a date, Jeff?” God, what should she wear? She'd have to get something new. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a
real
date. Some guy named Brad who was the track coach at the local high school. It hadn't worked out because she wasn't interested in feeding his jock ego. Clarence simply didn't count. “Cecil's fine. So is Loopy. Whichever one is fine.”

“Are you sure? Does he miss me?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Yes, I'm sure, and, no, he does not miss you. At least I don't think so. It's hard to tell. He's acting normal. By that I mean all the dogs are acting normal. Maybe he does miss you a little.”

“I bet!” the voice on the other end of the phone groused. “I gotta go, Olivia. I'll see you Wednesday. No, I said I'd come out tomorrow. Okay, both nights. Howzat?”

Olivia found herself giggling. “Sounds good to me. I think I might have missed
you
. A little. See ya!”

Olivia ran to her room and yanked open the door to her closet. The contents looked pitiful. Truly pitiful. Her fingers were feverish as she moved hangers, peering behind them as though some wonderful designer outfit would suddenly appear. Truly, truly pitiful. There wasn't one single thing that could qualify as a date outfit.

Olivia's shoulders slumped. Then she brightened almost immediately. Wednesday morning, bright and early, she could go to the mall and pick up something. Maybe she'd get her hair done and even get a facial. The thought excited her. Then again, maybe what she was excited about was the date and not the wardrobe. Yes, the date. She almost squealed with excitement.

Giddy with what she was feeling, Olivia headed for her office and her computer. Her fist shot in the air when she saw an e-mail from the detective agency.

Like its predecessor, this e-mail, concerning Gwen Nolan, was short. A note at the bottom said
Report to follow within 36 hours
.

A
t eleven o'clock Olivia knew she was lost, even with the MapQuest diagram in her lap. Somewhere she'd taken a wrong turn as she'd tried to keep up with the speeding traffic on Route 1. She hated the eighteen-wheelers that whizzed by her. She made a left-hand turn on Amboy Avenue, wherever that was, just to get off the busy highway, and decided to stop at a gas station and ask for directions. She also needed to use the restroom and get something to drink.

The best-laid plans of mice and men
, she thought, and snorted.

Ten minutes later, Olivia paid for her Diet Coke and asked for directions, pleased to hear that she was less than three miles from her destination. The clerk made her a crude map.

Back in the car, she drove slowly on Route 35 until she came to High Street and made a right-hand turn. This was it—Jillian Laramie's street. She rode up and down until she was comfortable with the neighborhood. It was neat and tidy, a lot like Eagle Drive, where she lived. At this time of year there was snow on the ground, but she could tell it would be pretty in the spring and summer, when the trees were in full dress and the flowers and shrubs bloomed.

Ninety-nine High Street was a two-story house with a big screened-in porch. She could see a side door to her left. Six steps led to the screened-in porch. There was a garage, but the door was closed. Then she remembered that Jillian Davis Laramie had let her driver's license expire. How did she get around?

Going over in her mind what she was going to say to Allison Matthews's friend, Olivia continued to stare at the house. All the shades and draperies were closed. What did that mean? Maybe Jill no longer lived there. Well, there was only one way to find out. She got out of the car and marched determinedly up the walkway and the six steps. At the top she was thwarted. The door leading onto the screened porch was locked. There was a bell, however, and she rang it. The draperies on either side of the main door didn't move. She rang the bell again as she tried peering through the foggy Plexiglas of the storm door. There was no response. She rang the bell a third, then a fourth time.

Finally she turned around and walked down the steps and around to the left and the side door, where she banged on the glass in the door since there was no bell or door knocker. The upper portion of the door was a six-paned window with a venetian blind that was closed. Obviously, Jill liked privacy. Olivia knocked again, with no result. Then she pressed her ear to the door, listening for any sound inside such as a radio or television. Silence.

Frustrated, she walked back to the front of the house and out to the sidewalk. Maybe one of the neighbors could tell her if Jill was away, if perhaps she was the type to head south for the winter to get away from the snow and cold. Olivia made her way to the house on the left, walked up the steps, and rang the bell. An elderly man with a shock of white hair and matching beard opened the door and smiled. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

“I'm looking for Mrs. Laramie. She doesn't answer the door. Do you happen to know if she's away?”

The old man cackled with laughter as he hitched up his suspenders. “Come in, come in. It's cold out there.” Olivia obliged. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee? I just made a pot for myself. Can't drink coffee first thing in the morning, but by noon my stomach can handle it. Just follow me, and we can talk.”

Olivia trailed behind the man through the stiflingly hot house. She smelled licorice and Ben-Gay. The house was neat and tidy, the furniture old but comfortable-looking. The kitchen was warm and full of bright sunshine from the bay window. A small television sat on the counter, tuned to a twenty-four-hour news station. The old man turned the volume down. He held out his hand. “Paul Hemmings.”

“I'm Olivia Lowell. I live in Winchester, Virginia. What can you tell me about Mrs. Laramie?” Olivia said, getting right to the point.

The old man raised a bushy white eyebrow at her question as he poured coffee into a pretty flowered cup. A company cup, Olivia suspected.

“Can't tell you a thing. She moved in here about twenty years ago. Saw her go into the house and haven't seen her since. She didn't acknowledge my wife's death or even send a card. 'Course, that was eight years ago, and she didn't really know us, so I might have expected too much. In the beginning the neighbors talked some. Most of it made up, I'm sure. People do that when they don't have the real story, whatever the real story is. Deliveries are made to the side door. The neighborhood used to fret about her, not knowing if she was alive or dead in that house. After a while we stopped fretting and just ignored the whole thing. There's a daughter who lives in Avenel. Someone said she works for the
News Tribune.
Someone else said her name was Mary Louise, but I don't know if that's true or not. Would you like some cookies? They're store-bought, but they're okay.”

“No thanks, Mr. Hemmings. The coffee is fine. Does the daughter come to visit?”

“Not that I know of. I've never seen her. Some of the neighbors thought they, mother and daughter, might be estranged, but I don't know that for a fact. Are you wanting to see her about something important?”

“Yes, Mr. Hemmings, it's important. Do you think I could trouble you for a piece of paper and some tape? I'll put a note on her door, then go see if I can find the daughter. Can you give me directions to the newspaper?”

Paul Hemmings ripped out a sheet of paper from a spiral notebook, found a pen and an envelope, and handed them over. “I'll do better than that—I'll draw you a map.” Olivia watched as he found a stub of a pencil, spit on the end of it, and proceeded to draw a detailed map that would lead her to the local newspaper.

Olivia scribbled a note identifying herself.

She wrote down her cell phone number and sealed the envelope.

“You come back anytime, little lady. I like the company. Winters are bad for us old folk. Summertime, we can sit on our porches and chew the fat. Now it's just television—though it isn't so bad now that my son bought me a computer. I play poker all day long with my buddies. Still, it isn't the same thing as talking to people.”

Olivia shook hands with the old man, thanked him for the coffee, and left the house. She taped the envelope securely on the side door of Jill Laramie's house and knocked as loudly as she could to alert the person inside that she was back. Then she left.

Thirty minutes later she was at the
News Tribune
asking for anyone named Mary Louise. She was told they only had one such person, Mary Louise Rafferty, and she was in Classifieds. The receptionist pressed a number, spoke quietly, and a few minutes later a pleasant freckle-faced young woman bounded into the lobby. She was dressed warmly in wool slacks and a sky-blue sweater. She smiled a greeting. “Can I help you?”

Olivia held out her hand. “Olivia Lowell. I live in Winchester, Virginia. Is there someplace we can go where we can talk in private?”

Green eyes appraised Olivia. Newshound instincts. “About what?” the young woman asked carefully.

There was a wholesomeness, an air of honesty about Mary Louise. Olivia liked her instantly. “Your mother. I went to her house, but she didn't answer the door. I spoke to her neighbor, Paul Hemmings. He told me to come here. I really need to talk to you. Your mother and my mother were friends a long time ago. Allison Matthews was her name. She died a few weeks ago. She wanted me to find her two old friends.”

Frowning, Mary Louise Rafferty led Olivia across the lobby to an ornate bench under a bushy fica tree and a pond of sorts, with trickling water. Both women sat down. Mary Louise clasped her hands together. Olivia noticed the wedding ring and commented on it. Mary Louise smiled weakly and said, “I have seven-year-old twins. I only work the hours they're in school. Now, tell me how I can help you.”

“Tell me how I can get in touch with your mother. Does she have a phone number you can give me or an e-mail address? If the number is unlisted, perhaps you could call her and pave the way for me. This really is important. Perhaps
important
isn't the right word.
Crucial
might be more like it.”

Mary Louise looked torn. Then, “I can call her for you, but I doubt it will do any good. My mother is…Well, she's different. She's reclusive. She never goes outside the house. Never. She won't let anyone in because she's afraid of germs. Very phobic. She's never seen my children in person. I send pictures. I know how weird and strange this is going to sound, but I haven't seen my mother since she moved to High Street, and that's almost twenty years now. Needless to say, we are not close, but she is my mother. I tried for years but…I finally gave up. I'm closer to my father. He's a wonderful grandfather to my kids, too. Unfortunately, he lives in Arizona, but I can give you his phone number and e-mail address. My mother has e-mail, and that's how she does her banking and ordering. Deliveries are just left at the door. I guess this sounds pretty bizarre to you.”

Olivia made a sound that was supposed to be laughter. “You want to hear about bizarre, try this one for weird and bizarre. My mother gave birth to me, then told my father she didn't want
it
. I was the
it
. That same day she said she wanted a divorce. My father never saw her again. He raised me, told me she was dead. Then a few days ago a lawyer came to the house to tell me my mother had died a few weeks ago. Now, that's weird.”

“Damn. You're right, that is weird. I never knew anything about my mother's friends. Maybe there was something in the water in Mississippi back then.” Mary Louise gave a rueful laugh.

“There's another friend,” said Olivia, “named Gwen. She lives in South Carolina. I'm going there in a few days to talk with her. Do you know anything about her?”

Mary Louise grimaced. “No. I never heard the name. I wonder if she's as weird as your mother and mine. I just bet she is,” she said, answering her own question. “My father has a saying, birds of a feather flock together.”

Olivia laughed. “My father says the same thing. I agree with you—I bet she's just as strange. I left a note on your mother's door. Do you think she'll read it?”

The young woman shrugged. “I don't know. I used to worry about her, but I got over that real quick when she didn't even want to see my kids. My husband gets very upset if I even mention her name. Wait here, Olivia, I'll go back to the office and give her a call, and I'll write down my e-mail address for you.”

Olivia walked around the spacious, drafty lobby, looking at framed headline pictures that graced the walls. She whirled around when she heard her name being called.

Mary Louise shook her head to indicate her mother wouldn't agree to talk to Olivia. She handed over a piece of paper. “I put my home phone number on here and the number here at the paper if you want to call me. I know my dad will talk to you. My mother said to tell you the past is past, and she doesn't care one way or the other that your mother died. I'm sorry. My mother is very blunt.”

Olivia's shoulders slumped. “Will you at least give me her e-mail address? I'll never say where I got it. I promise.” Mary Louise looked torn again, but then she nodded and added the address to the bottom of the slip of paper. Olivia thanked her profusely and promised to stay in touch.

Leaving, Olivia suddenly thought of something and whirled around. “Mary Louise, do you have a cybercafé around here anywhere?”

“Sure. There's one in Woodbridge Mall, and another one on Main Street, in town.”

“How do I get there?” Mary Louise reached for the paper and scribbled directions to both cafés. They said good-bye again.

Olivia headed out toward Route 1 and followed the directions Mary Louise had given her. Studying the map, she realized the mall was less than a mile from where Jill Laramie lived.

It took her a good thirty minutes to find the cyberstore after she parked her car in the humongous parking lot. She signed on for computer use, paid the fee, and sat down to write e-mails to both Gill Laramie, Jill's ex-husband, and Jill herself. Ever mindful of the time, she figured she could wait at least two hours for a return of the e-mail, assuming either Jill or her ex was logged on. After that, she would have to immediately head for the airport if she wanted to avoid rush-hour traffic on the turnpike, return her rental car, and check in. She had no desire to spend the night in New Jersey. She wanted to see Jeff.

First she wrote to Gill Laramie and gave him her home e-mail address. Assuming he was logged on, he could respond to her there at the cybercafé. She offered a brief run-down of what she wanted but avoided any mention of the bank robbery.

Olivia anguished over the e-mail to Jill. If Jill was as weird as Mary Louise said she was, there was every possibility she would simply delete the e-mail and not even read it unless Olivia came up with a shocker of an opening line. She also needed a real grabber for the subject line. She finally settled for two words on the subject line. She typed both words in bold, oversize letters.
BANK ROBBERY
. Her message was short and to the point.