Authors: Kevin O'Brien
Giving the boat a shove, she watched it drift away from the shore.
Then she turned and headed for dry land.
“Sorry I didn’t call back sooner,” Karen said into her cell. She walked along Boylston Avenue at a brisk clip. She wore a trench coat over her black jeans and her dark green V-neck sweater.
She’d cancelled all her afternoon appointments before running out of the house. It was eleven blocks to her destination, and Karen was in a hurry. She might have taken a cab, but this wasn’t a phone conversation she wanted to conduct in the back of a taxi. She’d turned down Boylston to avoid the crowds and the traffic noise along the main drag, Broadway. This street was more residential, with an eclectic mix of brand-new and very old apartment buildings. Trees lined the parkways, and their fallen leaves covered the sidewalk. Karen hadn’t encountered too many other pedestrians taking this route.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, Detective,” she explained on the phone. “The last couple of hours, I’ve been busy making calls, hoping to find out where Amelia might have gone. You see, I probably should have told you this morning, but, well, Amelia stayed over at my place last night.”
“Is that so?” Jacqueline Peyton said on the other end of the line. “You knew we wanted to get in touch with Amelia. And yet you deliberately kept her from talking to us. Why?”
Karen hesitated. She didn’t want to say anything to incriminate Amelia or herself. Hell, she didn’t even want to be talking to the police right now. But if there was
another
Amelia out there endangering people’s lives, then the police had to be told. At the same time, the Amelia she knew was probably scared, confused, and hiding somewhere, like at the lake house in Wenatchee. And Karen didn’t want to see her hurt.
Yet, she’d slipped her dad’s revolver into her purse before leaving the house a few minutes ago. Exactly who she intended to use it on she didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “But I’m Amelia’s therapist, and my first duty is to my client. She’s a very sweet, very confused young woman—”
“Did she meet with Koehler on Sunday?” Jacqueline Peyton pressed.
“I can’t say,” Karen replied, picking up her pace. “I can’t tell you anything we discussed in confidence—”
“You know, Karen, that won’t hold up in court.”
“Maybe not, but I’m sticking to it. So, here’s what I can tell you right now. Okay?”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Amelia stayed at my house last night. After you called me this morning, I went to check on her, and she was gone. So was my car, and about sixty dollars from my purse. My car is a 1999 black Volkswagen Jetta, license plate number EMK903. Are you taking this down?”
“Yes, black VW Jetta, Washington plates EMK903.”
“Amelia’s uncle, her boyfriend, and her roommate don’t have any idea where she is,” Karen continued. “Her uncle and I checked, and she’s not up at her parents’ house in Bellingham. Amelia would never intentionally hurt anybody. But there’s someone who could be with her, and I think he’s trouble. His name’s Blade and he’s in his midtwenties. He has dyed black hair, and wears sunglasses a lot. I believe he drives an old black Cadillac with a bent antenna. I don’t have any other information about him.”
“All right,” the policewoman said. “Where are you right now? Are you at home?”
“No, I’m not,” Karen said. Just half a block ahead, she could see a green sandwich-board sign on the sidewalk. It had
ENTERPRISE RENTAL CAR
written on it.
“We’ll need to talk to you in person, Karen. And you might want to have your lawyer present.”
“Yes, I was afraid of that,” she murmured into the phone. And then she clicked off.
While they got her compact economy car ready for her, Karen asked to use the restroom. It was a small, gray-tiled unisex bathroom off the garage. She stood by the dirty white sink, and pulled out her cell phone again. She counted three ring tones.
“Sandpoint View Convalescent Home,” Roseann answered.
“Hi, Ro, it’s Karen again, just checking in. How’s my dad?”
“He’s up and around, and having a good day. Still no sign of that girl you asked about.”
“Well, good,” Karen said, relieved. “You might not be able to get ahold of me later this afternoon. If you do see her, call this number right away. Do you have a pen?”
“Just a sec. Okay, shoot.”
“555-9225, that’s a Detective Jacqueline Peyton. Tell her you’re a friend of mine, and you’ve found Amelia Faraday.”
“555-9225,” Roseann repeated. “I’m a friend of yours and I found Amelia Faraday. Got it.”
“Detective Peyton will know what to do from there.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“I can’t right now. But later, Ro, I promise.”
“Sounds like you’re in a hurry to get someplace.”
“Yes, I need to take off soon,” Karen said.
“Well, you caught me in the lounge, and Frank’s right here. Do you have time to talk with him? Like I said, he’s having a good day.”
“Oh, yes, thank you. Ro. Please, put him on.” She waited, and heard some faint murmuring on the other end.
“Hello, Karen?” he said, at last.
“Hi, Poppy, how are you?”
“Fine. How’s my girl doing?”
“I’m okay,” she lied. Her voice even cracked a little, because this was one of those rare moments when she felt like she was talking to her father again. Part of her just wanted to say,
Poppy, I’m in trouble
. Instead, she cleared her throat. “Um, I hope to come by to visit you tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll be here. Could you bring Rufus?”
“Sure, I will. You sound great, Poppy.”
“We’re having ham for dinner tonight,” he said. “They serve a good ham here.”
“Well, enjoy. And I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, sweetie. Take care of yourself.”
Then she heard him talking to Roseann: “That was my daughter, Karen. How do you hang up this thing? Oh…I see…” There was a click on the line.
“Bye, Poppy,” she said to no one.
“Why do you want to talk to Erin?” asked the woman on the telephone.
There were five Gottliebs in the Salem phone book, and this was the third one George had called. It was Erin’s mother, M. Gottlieb.
“I’m trying to track down some information on Annabelle Schlessinger,” George said. He was sitting inside his car, still parked down the street from the Salem Library. “I understand Erin and Annabelle were friends.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. “Mrs. Gottlieb?”
“Um, how did you know Annabelle?” she asked finally.
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “That’s why I wanted to talk to Erin. You see, I’m doing some research on my family tree—a master’s thesis on genealogy, actually. There’s a chance I could be related to Annabelle. I was hoping Erin might be able to give me some information about the Schlessingers.”
“I don’t think she could tell you much. Erin and Annabelle really weren’t friends for very long.”
“Anything would be helpful, Mrs. Gottlieb.”
“Well, I suppose you could phone her at work. You can reach her at the Pampered Pup.”
It was a doggie daycare and grooming place located in a strip mall near Willamette University. George had decided he’d get more information out of Erin if they talked face-to-face.
Apparently Erin had been expecting him, one way or another. When he told the Pampered Pup receptionist he was looking for Erin, the heavyset, terminally bored-looking young woman came around the lobby desk, then escorted him to the back. She opened a door that must have been soundproof, because the sudden din of yelps and barking startled him. She led him to an alcove, where about two dozen small-and medium-sized dogs were in cages, stacked one on top of the other.
“Hey, Erin,” the receptionist yelled over the racket. “You’ve got a visitor.” Then she wandered back toward the front office.
Erin was thin with straight, dark-blond hair, glasses, and a pierced nostril. She stood at a long steel sink, washing a slightly hyper Jack Russell terrier. She wore a dark-blue work apron over her black sweater and jeans. She nodded instead of shaking his hand. She had on yellow rubber gloves, and worked a portable shower nozzle over the soapy dog.
“Hi, I’m George,” he said. “Sorry to bother you here at work.”
“It’s okay. My mom called to tell me you might be calling or coming by.” Erin gave him a wry grin. She had to talk loudly over the continuous barking. “All these alarms probably went off when you told her you were related to Annabelle Schlessinger. Mom always thought Annabelle was a terrible influence on me. So, what did you want to know?”
“Well, I read that story in the
Statesman Journal
about the fire, and what you said about Annabelle.” George leaned against the dry end of the long sink. “It was an interesting quote, very poetic…”
“Oh, that
force of nature
speech,” she said, chuckling. “I got so much shit from my other friends about that. But I honestly couldn’t think of anything
nice
to say. Annabelle and I were officially avoiding each other weeks before the fire. But I guess I knew her better than anyone else, so I had to come up with something for that stupid reporter.”
“Your mom indicated that you and Annabelle weren’t friends for very long,” George said.
Washing under the dog’s tail, she nodded. “Yeah, she was just a little too clingy and possessive. Can I be totally honest with you? I mean, you didn’t know her, right? You don’t want me blowing smoke up your ass, right?”
“No, I’d appreciate your honesty. Really, it won’t offend me at all.”
“Well, it’s funny. All the guys were hot for Annabelle, because she was pretty and had big boobs. But she just used them. It didn’t take long for me to realize she was a manipulative bitch, and you can throw
crazy
into that soup, too.”
“Crazy, how?”
“Well, I guess this goes with the clingy, possessive part of her character. But she wanted us to work out our own secret language, so we could write and talk to each other, and no one else would understand. She even wanted us to dress alike at school. I mean, how queer is that? Oh, and she claimed she could read my thoughts. That was another thing. Annabelle said she was telepathic. I remember laughing at her and saying she was tele-
pathetic,
and she got really pissed off at me. I think that was the beginning of the end for us.”
She picked up the terrier and moved it farther down the steel sink. “Better back up,” she said.
But George didn’t hear her past all the barking and yelping. He was thinking about the matching clothes, a secret language, and some telepathic connection. Was Annabelle hoping Erin would take the place of the twin she’d lost?
“Hey,” Erin said loudly. “Unless you want to get doused, better stand back. He’s gonna shake it off.”
George backed up toward the cages, and watched the dog shake off the excess water. Erin started working a towel over him.
“Did Annabelle ever mention to you that she had a twin sister?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,
Andrea
.” Erin said, nodding. “She told me
Andrea
was abducted by some pervert neighbor when the kid was four, and he raped and killed her. I mean, talk about creepy and tragic, right? And then I talked to another girl in my class, Deborah Wothers. Annabelle tried to be Deborah’s friend for a while, because Deborah’s so nice and everybody loves her. But Deborah was smart enough to keep her distance. Anyway, she told Deborah that her twin sister,
Alicia
, slipped and fell in the tub and drowned or some bullshit like that. So, you’re telling me she really did have a twin?”
George just nodded. He knew both stories were fabrications, of course. But he wondered if there was a sliver of truth to the abduction incident.
Erin had stopped drying the dog. She stared at George. “So, this twin, how did she really die?”
“She didn’t. She’s alive, and her name’s Amelia,” he explained. “The Schlessingers put her up for adoption when she was four. I’m trying to find out why. Amelia doesn’t know anything about her birth family. I was hoping you could fill in a lot of blanks for me, Erin. Did Annabelle ever talk about her mother?”
With a dumbfounded look, Erin shook her head.
“Nothing?” he pressed.
“Well, I heard she offed herself when Annabelle was just a kid. She hanged herself in the basement or something. Annabelle was supposed to have found her. I never had the guts to ask her for details.”
“What about the father?”
She shrugged. “I used to see him at church, that’s it.”
“Didn’t you ever see him at Annabelle’s house?”
“I never went there. I don’t think anyone in the class did, either.” Erin wrapped the dog in the towel, then carried him to a cage, and set him inside. With a sigh, she pulled off her gloves. “Anyway, I never set foot in the place,” she said. “Annabelle always came over to my house. She pretty much hated living out there at that ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
“Did Annabelle ever talk about her Uncle Duane?” George asked.
Erin pried a stick of Juicy Fruit out of her pants pocket, then unwrapped it and put it in her mouth. “Nope, sorry.”
She put her work gloves back on, opened another cage, and pulled out a miniature schnauzer. “C’mon, bath time, you mangy son of a bitch,” she muttered. She set the dog in the steel tub, then stopped and turned to George. “You know who you should talk to? Mrs. Cadwell, our homeroom teacher sophomore year. Caroline Cadwell, she was practically a friend of the family. I think she even knew Mrs. Schlessinger. She could tell you a lot.”
“Caroline Cadwell,” George repeated. Along with Erin, she’d been quoted in the newspaper account about the fire.
Stroking the dog’s head, Erin paused to glance at George. “As far as the Schlessingers go, Mrs. Cadwell knows more than anybody else, and she’s
seen
more than anybody else. She can tell you all about the fire, too.”
“Really?” George asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she replied, nodding. “Mrs. Cadwell’s the one who identified the bodies.”