Pumpkin Roll (12 page)

“So what happened?”

She startled and turned to see Pete watching her with concern. She shook her head, not sure of the right words, but then she just opened her mouth and found herself telling him everything. When she finished, Pete’s eyebrows were up. “Maybe she
is
a witch,” he said.

Sadie shook her head, hoping he was making a joke. “She needs help,” she said. “The house is a mess, and I could smell garbage. She’s just not . . . normal. I . . .”

“What?”

“Can you handle things for a little while so I can try to figure out where Gabrielle works?”

Pete hesitated before he spoke. “Yeah.”

“Thanks. Mrs. Wapple didn’t seem to be in pain just now,” she said, realizing she also hadn’t been mumbling about angry birds. “But I’d like to make one more attempt to contact her sister. Having a family member involved is the best way to get her help sooner rather than later, and since you found her correct last name, I think I can do a better job researching her this time.”

Pete considered that and nodded. “Okay. But if you hear me crying uncle, come save me, okay?”

Sadie smiled and headed back to her room. She sat on her bed and pulled the laptop close but noticed she was still shaking from the Mrs. Wapple-induced adrenaline rush.

“I
will
figure this out,” Sadie said to herself as she opened an Internet browser and typed in the URL of the first website designed to find any and all mentions of
Gabrielle Marrow
on the World Wide Web. From there, she’d simply follow the information until she knew everything she needed to know.

Chapter 10

As it turned out, Gabrielle Marrow was not what Sadie expected. There was very little to find about her until the last few years, when she’d risen quickly through the social circles of upper-class Boston society. She was the director for an art gallery that often hosted fundraisers heavily attended by what Sadie would call the Boston aristocracy. The Bastian Gallery was closed Sundays and Mondays, which explained why she was at Mrs. Wapple’s house on Monday afternoon.

Gabrielle didn’t appear to have any children, but Sadie had found two mentions of her on a website deemed the “expert” on socialites in the Boston area. Both times Gabrielle had been on the arm of the Boston Brahmin, a Mr. Bruce Handell. The Handell family, according to an article Sadie found, could trace their ancestors directly back to the original settlers of New England and were considerable real estate moguls and philanthropists. Bruce had two teenage daughters from a previous marriage and, though the articles weren’t focused on his relationship with the new woman in his life, Sadie noticed a flashy ring on Gabrielle’s hand in the photo from a benefit in September, despite the fact that her finger had been bare when Sadie met her at Mrs. Wapple’s on Monday.

After educating herself about Gabrielle and finding out where she worked, Sadie was ready to act. She considered talking it over with Pete, but she didn’t want to waste time. She knew Pete wanted this situation over with as much as she did so she just jumped in with both feet and called the Bastian Gallery on Newbury Street in downtown Boston. A man’s voice answered the phone with a monotone, “Bastian Gallery. This is Hansel.”

Hansel? Really?

Sadie paused before asking for Gabrielle, only then remembering that Pete had made the previous calls due to Sadie and Gabrielle’s strange meeting yesterday—this might be awkward. Sadie braced herself when Gabrielle picked up the phone.

“This is Gabrielle,” she said in an airy, slightly British-sounding accent that spoke of good upbringing and cultured tastes. From the information Sadie had found about Delores Wapple, however, nothing seemed to indicate that the family itself was so well-appointed.

“Hello, Ms. Marrow. My name is Sadie Hoffmiller. You and I met yesterday at your sister’s house.” There was no reason to not be direct at this point, she figured.

There was a pause. “Yes, Mrs. Hoffman, how may I help you?”

She offered no apology or explanation for posing as Delores? Interesting. Sadie decided to follow Gabrielle’s lead and ignore their meeting, for now. “I’m very concerned about your sister,” Sadie said, jumping straight to the heart of the subject. “We’ve had a few . . . incidents and I feel that she needs some kind of help—medical help, probably—and as soon as possible.”

“Thank you for your concern. I’ll make sure it is taken care of.”

Sadie pulled her eyebrows together. Gabrielle’s tone was as even and poised as it had been when she’d said hello. Sadie heard a voice in the background, and Gabrielle must have covered the phone since it went silent for a few seconds. As soon as the background noise reappeared, Sadie spoke again, not wanting to lose her opportunity. “I think she’s in a great deal of pain,” she said. “And she doesn’t seem to be mentally stable and—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hoffman. As I said, I’ll see to it.”

“It’s Hoffmiller,” Sadie corrected her without thinking. She shook her head in frustration and forged ahead. “You’ll see about getting her to a doctor?” she asked, needing specifics. “I’m also concerned about her home. It’s a mess and—”

“Thank you for calling.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Marrow, but I’m not sure you understand what’s going on. I know you were here yesterday, but last night—” There was a click and the line went dead. Really? Gabrielle had hung up on the woman trying to help her sister?

Sadie took a deep breath as she regarded the phone, but could feel her frustration percolating. She hit redial and put the phone back to her ear. Hansel answered again. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Gabrielle Marrow, please.”

“I’m afraid she’s not taking any calls. Would you like me to take a message?”

“She took my call a minute ago.”

“She is no longer taking calls. I’m happy to take a message.” His monotone made it impossible to read his mood or guess what Gabrielle might have told him.

“Okay,” Sadie said, wriggling a little as she sat on the bed. “Tell her that . . .” There were several things Sadie wanted to say, but she had to consider the whole catching flies with honey advice and asked herself what was most likely to get the right kind of attention. “Tell her that I would really appreciate talking to her, that I’m trying to help.”

Hansel paused. “That’s the message you’d like to leave?”

“Yes,” Sadie said. “Word for word.” She waited until he repeated it back to her, then she gave him her cell phone number. “Please see that she gets it immediately.”

“I will,” Hansel said, but his tone sounded . . . confused.

Sadie’s intent was to prick Gabrielle’s conscience and so she drummed her fingers on her thighs, waiting for Gabrielle to call back, contrite and humbled by Sadie’s sincerity. Three minutes passed. Then five. Sadie’s hopeful expectations of a display of sisterly love and affection gave way to irritation. Sadie had never been good at waiting in the first place, and when someone’s health and safety was on the line, it was nearly impossible. While she waited for Gabrielle to call back, she kept digging into Gabrielle’s life.

On the art gallery’s website were biographies of the key employees. Like the others, Gabrielle’s bio talked about her education—substantial and impressive—and group affiliations, which had hyperlinks connecting to their websites. Sadie clicked on each link, going to the home pages and updating herself on the groups’ purposes so as to get a more dimensional look at this woman. Art Project was an art program for underprivileged children. Scavenger Files used recyclable materials to create sculptures and encouraged the green movement and personal creativity; some of the artwork had been displayed at the courthouse last spring. Boston Women for Education was self-explanatory; the website was saturated with pictures of fancy ladies reading books to poor children. Sadie clicked on the link for Global Initiatives. The home page brought up an announcement about their semiannual banquet. Sadie was just about to click on the about us link when her eye caught the date of the upcoming meeting: Tuesday, October 21.

That was tonight!

Sadie leaned forward and read the date again before eagerly reading the rest of the information. The banquet was being held at the Marriott at Copley Place, which Sadie had seen when she and Pete took the T downtown last Saturday.

On an impulse, Sadie called the art museum again, but from Heather and Jared’s phone on the nightstand instead of her cell this time. Hansel answered.

“Yes,” Sadie said, disguising her voice with her best impression of a Boston accent—not the Bronx of Boston, though. She was going for something a little more highbrow like Gabrielle had used. “I’m calling to confirm that Gabrielle Marrow will be attending tonight’s dinner at the Marriott for Global Initiatives.” She worried she’d gone too British in her enunciation and cleared her throat in anticipation of having another go at it.

“Hold on one moment,” he said and put Sadie on hold. She felt her heart rate increase as she waited. Less than fifteen seconds later he got back on the line. “She said that, yes, she received her e-mail confirmation. She wanted me to double-check that she was on the guest list.”

“Oh, yes,” Sadie assured him—her accent was much better this time. Very Boston. “She’s on the list, we’re just verifying.”

“But she got her confirmation,” Hansel said. Sadie heard Gabrielle’s voice in the background telling him that she’d almost pulled the e-mail up on her computer to verify she had it. She sounded quite concerned that there could be a problem. Far more concerned than she’d been about her sister. “She wants to make sure—”

“Rest assured, she’s on the list. I simply wanted to make sure she was still planning to attend. Thank you for your help.”

Sadie hung up and scowled. Mrs. Wapple deserved better. For a few minutes, Sadie updated the notes she’d been taking on the research she’d done throughout the day. When she finished, she took a deep breath and knew she’d be unable to shake the unsettled feeling in her stomach until she was certain that Gabrielle Marrow knew the full spectrum of Sadie’s concerns. Based on the dates of the obituary and when Mrs. Wapple moved into the neighborhood, it was easy to see that Mrs. Wapple had probably lived with her father until he passed away. Her care, such as it was, must have then transferred to her only living relative, her younger sister. Was Gabrielle overwhelmed by the responsibility? Did she not understand the extent of Mrs. Wapple’s problems? Regardless of the reasons, Gabrielle had to be
made
to understand. She had to become an advocate for her sister.

When Sadie reentered the fray of the household a few minutes later, she immediately began cutting up broccoli at the counter while updating Pete on what had transpired over the last hour. She hoped the boys would like the broccoli in brown butter she was making for dinner; it complemented both the broiled chicken breasts and chicken nuggets. She was calling it Snowy Trees for the boys’ benefit; she intended to see them eat green vegetables.

When she finished telling Pete about the phone calls, silence hung between them. Pete didn’t ask if Sadie was going to the dinner at the Marriott, and she didn’t ask his opinion as to whether or not she should crash it. Sadie put the broccoli in the steamer basket where it would wait its turn, and then preheated the oven before pulling out the pots and pans she needed to cook the rest of dinner. It was almost five o’clock.

“The banquet starts at six thirty, but I need to be there by six to make sure I can intercept Gabrielle,” she said, thinking out loud. “I can take the T and be there in twenty minutes.” She and Pete had taken the subway to the Boston Common on their first day to tour the monuments and historical sites spread throughout the park—another jewel on the Emerald Necklace of parks designed by Olmsted—and Sadie had used the subway to travel between Jamaica Plain and her hotel in Brookline before Heather and Jared left town. She was practically an expert.

“By yourself?” Pete asked with a concern Sadie chose to ignore.

Sadie nodded. “I adore mass transit,” she said brightly. “It’s like a whole other society.” There had been a man dressed like Santa Claus singing Irish drinking songs when she and Pete had gotten on at the Haymarket station for the ride home. They’d kept their distance, but it was a delightful show.