Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Miffy took a breath and a sip of her tea and smiled at Mal. “Well, that’s a tiny potted history of the Peascotts, or at least the most recent of them. Except for myself, of course.”
Mal said, enraptured, “But how wonderful to really know your family. I never met my grandparents, never even knew I had any. I barely knew my father. And as for my mother … well, her family was a kind of mystery too. She never spoke to me about them. I’m afraid the Malones have no grand heritage, the way the Peascotts and the Jordans do,” she added regretfully.
“These days heritage counts for very little.” Miffy offered her a plate of exquisite fruit tartlets. They were so pretty, they looked like miniature still-life artworks. “What counts is what you have, my dear. Enterprise, talent, hard work, and courage.” She hesitated—she knew she shouldn’t, but she just had to.
“I so admired what you did last night,” she said quietly, “though Harry would hate me for talking about it. He didn’t want me to upset you, said you’d been through enough as it was. And I can see he was right.”
She leaned forward and patted Mal’s hand. “But what you did for those poor families was truly wonderful. Those young women will never become the forgotten victims. And when he’s caught, no one will allow this sadist to be a media star. And he will be caught, Mallory, my dear. Thanks to you.”
Mal said modestly, “But I was only a conduit, a means to an end. It’s all those people working hard behind the scenes who will catch him, the people Harry told me about. All those patient police officers tracking down every gardener and handyman in Boston to see if they use the same rose fertilizer. Forensics examining every tiny bit of evidence. And detectives like Harry and Carlo Rossetti and all the others who think nothing of giving every minute of their time to preventing another murder from happening. They’re the ones who are doing the work. I was merely in the fortunate position of being able to present it to the public.”
Miffy looked admiringly at her but didn’t pursue the point because she had said enough and knew Harry wouldn’t want her to.
“More tea, my dear?” she asked. “Now tell me, what do you and Harry have planned for the weekend? You could always pop up to Jordan’s Farm, you know. It’ll be quite empty. Oh, I forgot to mention that I’m off to Prague tomorrow with my friend Julia Harrod. Just a long weekend. Now there’s a fascinating city, or so I’m told at any rate.” She laughed merrily. “I can’t wait to see it, I’ve got that old travel urge again. I can never resist. But do go up to the farm if you wish, my dear. I saw how much you liked it. And while you’re there, try and pull up a few weeds in my rose garden. Can you tell me how is it they have the ability to spring up overnight?”
She drew a breath. “Now, if you’ve finished your tea, why not let me show you around. I’ll tell you a bit more of the Peascott history as we go. After all, now that you’re going—” She stopped herself just in time. “Oh dear,” she said, laughing, “Harry would never forgive me for ‘running off at the mouth,’ as he would so vulgarly put it.”
By the time she left an hour later, Mal’s head was whirling from Peascott exploits on battlefields and whaling ships, as well as in the casinos at Monte Carlo and in
Parisian garrets, where one black sheep had spent several years attempting to become “an artist.”
“Without a scrap of talent,” Miffy had told her, “but with a great deal of charm.” He had married his mistress and model, a girl from Corsica, who Miffy was sure had put a much-needed Latin snap-crackle-and-pop into their stern New England bloodline.
Mal was still smiling as she let herself into Harry’s house. She closed the door behind her, thinking how pleasant these old houses were, so filled with history and character. It was as though, in some way, they still retained the personalities and the happiness of the people who had lived there over the past two centuries.
She fed Squeeze some Alpo, flipped through Harry’s CD collection, and put on the good Sade album, the first one. She arranged kindling in the empty grate and put a match to it, and when it flared, she threw on a couple of smaller logs. The blaze filled the room with a satisfying glow. And then the telephone rang.
She picked it up, fairly singing his name. “Hello, Harry.”
She was smiling as she waited for him to say hello back, but there was no reply. “Hello,” she said again, more cautiously. Again there was no answer. Yet she knew someone was on the line.
Her spine crawled as she put the receiver down. She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder, suddenly aware of being alone. Squeeze was standing in the doorway, looking at her. He looked big and solid and wolflike, and so comforting she could have hugged him. Anyhow, it was probably only a wrong number. She was just on edge, that was all.
But when it rang again, a few minutes later, she said in a subdued voice, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, of course. Who were you expecting?” Harry asked.
“Ohh, it’s you,” she sighed, relieved. “Did you call a few minutes ago?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, someone did, only when I answered, there was no one there. I mean, I’m sure someone was there, but they didn’t say anything. It happened before too. This morning, at home.”
“It must just be a coincidence,” he said, but he was frowning. “My number is unlisted.”
“So is mine.”
“Well, there you go. There’s no way a person could get either my unlisted number or yours, let alone both. Chalk it up to error, Mal.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice.
He sensed she was nervous and said quickly, “Look, I’m on my way home. I’ll be with you in half an hour. Don’t worry about a thing, okay?”
“Okay.” She sounded relieved.
Harry clicked the off button on his mobile phone and said to Rossetti, “I know I’m the ace detective and I’m supposed to know, but how would a regular guy go about getting an unlisted number?”
“Easy,” Rossetti said, in between bites of a frosted jelly doughnut. “Get it from a friend.”
“What friend is going to give out an unlisted number?”
Rossetti was slumped over his desk. His usual immaculate appearance was shot to hell. His stubble matched Harry’s, his pants were wrinkled, his shirt sleeves were rolled, and his silk tie was unknotted and hung like a gaudy ribbon round his neck. He gave Harry a withering glance. “Prof, you want an unlisted number, you flash your badge. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Not me, Rossetti. The killer.”
Rossetti sat up quickly. He had overheard Harry’s part of the conversation and what he was getting at suddenly clicked. “He had Mal’s number?”
“Someone did. And mine.” Harry shrugged. “Of course it could be coincidence—two hang-ups, two different numbers. But the same woman
answered
those numbers, Rossetti, and it gets me nervous.”
Worried, he dialed the telephone company and asked under what circumstances they would give out an unlisted number. He was told only for a medical emergency, and even that would have to be verified by a doctor. They had not divulged his number nor Ms. Malone’s.
“Then you’re right, Rossetti,” he said. “The only way would be from a friend.”
“Speaking of friends, it’s Vanessa’s birthday in a couple of weeks. You guys still comin’ to the party?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Harry was already on his way out.
“In a hurry, aren’t you?” Rossetti yelled after him, but Harry only laughed.
When he stepped through his own front door twenty minutes later, he thought at first it was the wrong house. He was used to being greeted by silence, stillness, the emptiness of a house left for long stretches unused. Now it was filled with the scent of a log fire and food cooking and Sade singing about love. He felt like a husband coming home after a long day at the office.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called out mockingly.
Mal poked her head around the kitchen door. “So you are,
sweetheart,”
she retorted. The dog was standing next to her. Squeeze stretched luxuriously, first his front legs, then the back, then ambled slowly over to Harry.
“Talk about love me, love my dog,” Harry said, amazed. “You’re here a couple of hours, and already he’s switched allegiance.”
“Not true.” She retreated into the kitchen. “He’s been for a long walk, he’s had a good dinner, and he’s lazy, that’s all. Don’t worry, Harry, he still loves you.”
She was standing at the stove stirring something in a stainless-steel pan. He came up behind her and slid his
arms around her, kissing the back of her neck. “And how about you?”
She said ambiguously, “I haven’t had a long walk yet, or a good dinner.”
He inspected the soup in the pan. “Mmm, you make that?”
“Nope. Zabar’s made it. And the rest of your supper.”
He laughed and spun her around in his arms. “Why didn’t you eat already? It’s after nine o’clock.”
“Without you, I wasn’t hungry.”
“Did I mention I was glad to see you? And that you look good in jeans.”
She laughed. “Yeah, now we’re a matched set.”
As he headed for the shower, he called over his shoulder, “I’ve got a surprise for you. Remind me to tell you about it later.”
After they ate, they took Squeeze for a walk. Harry sniffed the balmy air eagerly as they walked down the front steps. “It’s starting to smell like summer,” he said.
“And exactly how does summer smell?”
“Oh, leafy, green … humid.”
“Fresh-cut grass and new-mown hay?” she reminded him.
He grinned. “You got it. Oh, I almost forgot. The surprise.” She slowed, looking expectantly at him. “I’ve got the weekend off. Rossetti’s covering for me, and they’re giving me a break.”
Mal’s face lit up with the radiant smile that sent a shaft of sunshine through his heart. She said, “You mean I’m stuck with you full time?”
He tucked his arm through hers as they strolled down the sloping cobbled street. The dog ran ahead of them in little circles. “I thought we might go out to Jordan’s Farm and snatch a couple of days of peace and quiet. You need it, Mal, and God knows, so do I.”
They walked down to the Embankment, then back up
Chestnut Street to Louisburg Square, talking about their plans to leave early and make the most of their precious time together. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry vaguely registered a gunmetal Volvo parked on the corner, but the most thought he gave to it was that Boston was surely a Volvo town. Then his mind switched back to Mal and the fact that tonight she would be sleeping in his bed.
“Just like the three bears,” she said with a grin. “If you include Squeeze.”
T
HE VOLVO WAS STILL THERE
at six the next morning when they piled into the Jaguar and took off for the farm. Harry figured it must belong to a neighbor. It was surely a small world.
Out on the highway heading north though, he noticed a black Infiniti with heavily tinted windows traveling behind him. No matter what speed he went, it was right there in his rearview mirror, keeping pace with him.
He frowned but said nothing to Mal, who was snuggled happily in her seat, eyes closed. He thought apprehensively about the telephone hang-ups and decided that was all they were. His serial killer just wasn’t clever enough to obtain unlisted numbers. He was a plodder. Suzie Walker’s unexpected return had thrown him into a panic and made him act out of character. He was a man who planned his actions over a period of time; he never acted on impulse. That was the reason they would catch him one day soon.
His exit was coming up, and he signaled right, keeping an eye on the mirror as he swung onto the off-ramp. The Infiniti kept right on going, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He told himself he was getting paranoid and put it out of his mind.
The man in the gunmetal Volvo had kept well back, out of Harry’s view. He had seen Mallory Malone on the TV news yesterday, arriving at Logan. And he already knew
everything there was to know about Detective Harry Jordan. He made it his business to know and understand his enemies; that way he was the one in control. He knew which exit Harry would take, and he was just half a beat behind him on the road to Jordan’s Farm.
Mal thought Harry had been right about summer. The sun was blazing down as they climbed from the Jag. There was real heat this time, and the country air smelled fresh and juicy, like ripening fruit and bursting rosebuds.
Squeeze dashed around the corner of the house while Harry hauled the bags from the car and Mal stood there, absorbing the stillness. A woodpecker rat-tatted on a tree somewhere nearby. “I feel as though I’m a character in a Woody Woodpecker cartoon,” she said, laughing.
“Well, you don’t look it. You look real and very beautiful. Fresh air suits you.”
“How about that,” she marveled. “You actually paid me a compliment without adding a nasty little qualifying clause.”
“I thought it was you who had the nasty clauses.”
“There you go again,” she retorted, going up the steps to the porch.
He rolled his eyes heavenward, exasperated, as he followed her, carrying the bags. “I’m going to take you fishing, calm your nerves.”
“I’ve never been fishing.” She wasn’t sure it was her style. “It looks so boring.”
“It gives a man time to think. And a woman,” he added hastily. “There’s no discrimination around here.”
Jordan’s Farm was just as lovely as Mal remembered. The house seemed to wrap itself cozily around her, enfolding her in its peace and serenity. She could feel the continuity of life it offered, the knowledge that no matter what happened, it would always be there for Harry to return to.
Harry watched as she ran a hand reverently over the
satin surface of an old table, touched a worn velvet cushion, picked up an old photograph, and bent to smell the flowers in a pottery jug on the window ledge. He knew what she was feeling.
“It’s called spirit of place,” he said quietly. “It’s a feeling, an emotion that some of these old houses seem to retain, like decades of compressed memories.”
Mal remembered the bleak soullessness of the “home” she had shared with her mother in the Golden trailer park. She knew you didn’t have to be rich for your home to have “spirit of place,” but there had to be love.