The Accident

  I dialed the number I still knew by heart, heard it ring in my ear and watched as the phone rang and vibrated in front of me. I waited for the end of the seventh ring, at which point I knew it would go to voicemail, and I would get to hear my dead wife’s voice.

  “Hi. This is Sheila. I’m either on the phone, away from it, or too scared to answer because I’m in traffic, so please leave a message.”

  And then the beep.

  I started to speak. “I … I just …”

  I hung up, my hand trembling.

  I needed a minute to pull myself together.

  “I just wanted to say,” I said, standing there in the room alone, “that I’ve said some things, since you’ve been gone, that now … I’ve been so angry with you. So goddamn angry. That you’d have done this, that you’d … do something so stupid. But in the last day or so, I don’t know … Things made no sense before, and they’re making even less sense now, but the less sense they make, the more I’m starting to wonder … to wonder whether there’s more to this, that maybe … that maybe I haven’t been fair, that maybe I’m not seeing …”

  I sat in the chair and let the feelings wash over me, just let it happen. Allowed myself a minute or so to let it out. Like releasing pressure on a valve. You have to let it off, even just a little, so you don’t get an explosion.

  And when I finished sobbing, I grabbed a couple of tissues, wiped my eyes, blew my nose, took a few deep breaths.

  And got back to it.

  I went into Sheila’s phone’s call history. Arthur Twain said Sheila had called this guy Sommer the day of her accident, just after one.

  I found a number in the history of outgoing calls. There it was, at 1:02 p.m. A New York area code.

  I snatched up the receiver from my desk phone and dialed it. There was half a ring, and then a recording telling me the number was no longer in service. I hung up. Arthur Twain had said Sommer was no longer using that phone.

  I got out a pen and a piece of paper and started writing down all the other numbers Sheila had called the day of, and the days leading up to, her accident. There were five calls to my cell, three to my office, three to the house. I recognized Belinda’s number. There was the Darien number I knew to be Fiona’s place, and another one I recognized as Fiona’s cell.

  Then, as an afterthought, I checked the list of incoming calls on Sheila’s phone. There were the ones I would have expected. Nine from me—from the home phone, work phone, and cell. Calls from Fiona. Belinda.

  And seventeen from a number I did not recognize. Not the number I believed belonged to Sommer. Not a New York number. All the calls from that number were listed as “missed.” Which meant Sheila either didn’t hear the ring, or chose not to answer.

  I wrote down that number, too.

  She’d been called by that number once on the day she died, twice the day before, and at least twice a day, every day, in the seven days leading up to her death.

  I had to know.

  Again, I dialed out from the house phone. It rang three times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Allan Butterfield. Leave a message.”

  Allan who? Sheila didn’t know anyone named—

  Wait. Allan Butterfield. Sheila’s accounting teacher. Why would he have been calling her so frequently? And why would she have been refusing to take his calls?

  I tossed the phone onto the desk, wondering what else there was to do. So many questions, so few answers.

  I kept looking at the pills. Where would Sheila have gotten prescription drugs? How would she have paid for them? What was she planning to do with—

  The money.

  The money I socked away.

  The only people who knew about the cash I had hidden in the wall were Sheila and myself. Had she gone into that? Had she used that money to buy these drugs with the idea of reselling them?

  I opened my desk drawer and grabbed a letter opener. Then I went around the desk to the opposite corner of the room. I worked the opener into a seam in the wood paneling, and in a couple of seconds had a rectangular opening seventeen inches wide and a foot tall and about three inches deep.

  I could tell, very quickly, whether the money stored between the studs was all there. I kept it in $500 bundles. I quickly counted, and found thirty-four of them.

  The money I’d saved from years of under-the-table jobs was all there.

  And so was something else.

  A brown business envelope. It was tucked in behind the cash. I pulled it out, felt how thickly it was stuffed.

  In the upper left corner, some writing: From Belinda Morton. And then, scribbled under that, a phone number.

  I recognized it right away. I’d only seen it a couple of minutes ago.

  It was the number Sheila had dialed at 1:02 p.m. the day she died. The number Arthur Twain said belonged to Madden Sommer.

  The envelope was sealed. I worked the letter opener under the flap and made a nice clean cut, then stepped over to my desk and dumped out the contents.

  Cash. Lots and lots of cash.

  Thousands of dollars in cash.

  “Holy Mother of God,” I said.

  Then I heard the shot.

  A shattering of glass.

  Kelly screaming.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I was up the two flights of stairs in less than ten seconds.

  “Kelly!” I shouted. “Kelly!”

  Her door was still closed and I threw it open so fast I nearly pulled it off its hinges. I could hear Kelly screaming, but I didn’t see her. What I did see was shattered glass scattered across the floor and Kelly’s bed. The window that faced the street was a jagged nightmare.

  “Kelly!”

  I heard muffled crying and bolted for her closet door. I swung it wide and found her huddled in there atop a pile of shoes.

  She leapt up and flung her arms around me.

  “Are you okay? Honey? Are you okay? Talk to me!”

  She pressed her head against my chest and sobbed, “Daddy! Daddy!” I was holding her so tightly I was afraid I’d break her.

  “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Are you hurt? Did you get hit? By glass or anything?”

  “I don’t know,” she whimpered. “It scared me!”

  “I know, I know. Honey, I have to see if you’re okay.”

  She sniffed and nodded and allowed me to hold her a foot away. I was looking for blood and didn’t see any.

  “You weren’t hit by the glass?”

  “I was sitting there,” she said, pointing to the computer. Her desk was up against the same wall as the window, which meant that all the glass came in beside and behind her.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was just sitting there, and I heard a car going really fast and then there was a big bang and all the glass came in and so I ran into the closet.”

  “That was smart,” I said. “Hiding like that. That was good.” I pulled her into my arms again.

  “What did it?” she asked. “Did somebody shoot at the house? Is that what happened?”

  There were other people who’d help us get the answers to those questions.

  “Well,” said Rona Wedmore. “We meet again.”

  She arrived soon after several Milford police cars showed up. The street was closed off and there was yellow police tape cordoning off our property.

  “Small world,” I said.

  Wedmore spent several minutes talking just to Kelly. Then she wanted to talk to me privately. When Kelly looked frightened at the thought of being separated from me, Wedmore called over one of the uniformed officers, a woman, and asked Kelly if she’d like to see what the inside of a police car was like. My daughter allowed the woman to lead her away only after I promised her it would be okay.

  “She’ll be fine,” Wedmore assured me.

  “Really?” I said. “Detective, someone just tried to kill my daughter.”

  “Mr. Garber, I know you’re very upset right now, whi
ch, if you weren’t, I’d think there was something wrong with you. But let’s take this a step at a time, and sort out what we know and what we don’t know. What we know is pretty straightforward. Someone took a shot at your house, blew out your daughter’s bedroom window. But unless there’s something you know you’re not telling me, that’s about all we know for sure right now.

  “In fact, judging by where your daughter was sitting when the shot was fired, it doesn’t seem likely anyone was aiming for her. She wouldn’t even have been visible from the street. On top of that, the curtains were pulled shut almost all the way. Add to that the fact that Kelly’s only eight, not very tall, and no one shooting up from the street through a window, at that angle, could expect to have hit anyone that small anyway.”

  I nodded.

  “All that said, someone still shot out the window of your daughter’s bedroom. You have any idea who might want to do that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No one’s got a bone to pick with you? No one’s upset with you?”

  “I got more people pissed off at me than I can count, but none that would take a shot at my house. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “I guess Officer Slocum would be on the list of those pissed off at you.” I looked at her and said nothing. “I was at the visitation,” she reminded me. “And I know what you did. I know you took a swing at Officer Slocum.”

  “Jesus, you think Slocum did this?”

  “No,” she said sharply. “I do not. But who else have you taken a swing at lately that you’ve forgotten about? Do I need to start making a list?”

  “I haven’t forgotten—look, I’m a bit rattled, okay?”

  “Sure.” She shook her head. “You’re lucky, you know?”

  “What? That someone took a shot at my house?”

  “That you weren’t charged with assaulting a police officer.”

  It had occurred to me.

  “He isn’t pressing charges. I spoke to him about it personally. But you’re lucky. If some guy hit me, at my spouse’s visitation, that guy would be charged. Big-time.”

  “Why isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t get the idea you guys are good friends. My guess is, he’ll find a way to settle it on his own. I don’t think he’d shoot up your house, but I’d keep an eye on your speed. If he doesn’t pull you over, one of his buddies will.”

  “Maybe one of those buddies did it.”

  Wedmore’s face was awash with concern. “I suppose that’s something we have to consider, isn’t it? When we dig that bullet out of your wall, we’ll be taking a look at it, seeing if it’s a likely match with a police officer’s weapon. But now that you’ve had a moment to think, is there anyone else whose toes you’ve stepped on lately?”

  “It’s been a kind of … kind of a strange few days,” I admitted.

  “Strange how?”

  “I guess … I suppose it started with the sleepover.”

  “Wait, the one at the Slocums’?”

  “That’s right. There was kind of an incident there.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “Kelly and Emily, the Slocums’ little girl, were playing hide-and-seek. Kelly was hiding in the Slocums’ bedroom closet when Ann came into the room to make a call. When she spotted Kelly there, she got very angry. She upset Kelly so much that Kelly called me to come take her home.”

  “Okay,” Wedmore said. “Was that it?”

  “Not … really. Darren figured out Kelly had heard some of this phone conversation, which his wife had not told him about, and he wanted to know everything Kelly’d heard. He came by here Saturday, looking for her. Throwing his weight around. I told him what Kelly heard, which was next to nothing, and he promised not to bother her. But then I found him questioning her, without my knowledge, or permission, at the funeral home.” I looked down. “That was when I hit him.”

  Wedmore put her palm on the back of her neck and rubbed. “Well. Okay. Why was Officer Slocum so concerned about that phone call?”

  “Whoever it was, he thinks it was why his wife left the house that night. And then she had that accident down by the pier.”

  When Wedmore didn’t say anything for a moment, I said, “It was an accident, right?”

  A male uniformed officer came into the room and said, “Excuse me, Detective. The woman who lives next door, Joan …”

  “Mueller,” I offered.

  “That’s right. She happened to be looking out her window at the time and she says she saw a car drive past quickly at the time of the shot.”

  “Did she get a look at the car? Get a plate or anything?”

  “No plate, but she said it was a small car, but squared off at the back, like a station wagon. Sounds to me like a Golf, or maybe a Mazda 3, something like that. And she said she thought it was silver.”

  “She get a look at the driver?” She didn’t ask the question with any hope in her voice. It was night, after all.

  “No,” the cop said, “but she thought there were two people in the car. In the front. Oh yeah, and something on the end of the antenna. Something yellow, like a little ball.”

  “Okay, keep knocking on doors. Maybe somebody else saw something, too.”

  The cop left and Wedmore turned her attention back to me. “Mr. Garber, if you think of anything else, I want you to call me.” She reached into her pocket and produced a card. “And if we find out anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What was that?”

  “Ann Slocum. Her death. That was an accident, right?”

  Wedmore gave me an even look. “That investigation is ongoing, sir.” She put the card into my hand. “If you think of anything.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Slocum answered his cell before the second ring.

  “You tracked down that plate?” Sommer asked.

  “Jesus Christ, what did you do?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Garber kid’s window?” Darren was practically screaming into the phone. “The girl’s bedroom! Is that how you lean on people? Kill their kids?”

  “Did you get the plate?”

  “Are you hearing me?”

  “The plate.”

  “You’re unbelievable, you know that? Unfuckingbelievable.”

  “I’m ready to write down the information.”

  Slocum tried to catch his breath. He’d been shouting so loud he was nearly hoarse. “The car’s registered to an Arthur Twain. Out of Hartford.”

  “An address?”

  Slocum gave it to him.

  “What’d you find out about him?”

  “He’s a detective. Private. With something called Stapleton Investigations.”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  Slocum took another breath and did his best to speak calmly. “Listen to me, and listen to me carefully. You can’t go around shooting up kids’ bedrooms. Not just because it’s fucking wrong. It attracts way too much—”

  Sommer ended the call.

  TWENTY-NINE

  There were still cops up in Kelly’s bedroom when I went back down to the study. The money I’d found in the brown envelope was no longer on my desk. I’d dashed down here, bringing Kelly with me, between the time I’d called 911 and the arrival of the first squad car, stuffed the money back into the wall and replaced the panel. I’d had her stand outside the office door while I did it.

  Just as well, because the police were all through the house. There were only so many questions I wanted to deal with.

  I dialed Fiona.

  “Hello? Glen? Good God, do you know what time it is?”

  “I need a favor.”

  I could hear Marcus, on the other side of the bed. “Who is it? What’s going on?”

  “Shh! What kind of favor? What are you talking about?”

  “I’d like you to look after Kelly for a while.”

  I could sense Fiona trying to figure out what
I was up to. Maybe she’d return to her earlier suspicion, that I wanted Kelly out of the house so I could have a woman over.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked. “Have you decided you do want to send her to school here?”

  “No,” I said. “But I would like her to stay with you. For a few days, anyway.”

  “Why? I mean, I love having her here, but what’s your thinking?”

  “Kelly has to get out of Milford for a while. No school, nothing to worry about. She’s been through a rough time and it might be just the thing for her.”

  “Won’t she fall behind in her studies?” she asked. “At that school where they call her Boozer?”

  “Fiona, I need to know whether you can do this for me.”

  “Let me talk to Marcus and get back to you in the morning.”

  “I need an answer now. Yes or no.”

  “Glen, what’s this about, really?”

  I paused. I wanted Kelly out of town, someplace where it would be more work for Darren or anyone else to find her. I knew Fiona’s house had a full security system that was directly wired into the police, and that Fiona had it on all the time.

  I said, “It’s not safe here.”

  There was an even-longer pause at the other end of the line. Finally, Fiona said, “Fine.”

  I went upstairs and asked Kelly to come into my room, out of earshot of the police still in the house. I sat her on the bed next to me.

  “I’ve made a decision and I hope you’re going to be okay with it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’m taking you to your grandparents in the morning.”

  “I’m going to school there?”

  “No. It’ll be like a vacation.”

  “A vacation? Where?”

  “I don’t know that they’ll actually take you anywhere, but I suppose that would be okay,” I said.

  “I don’t want to be away from you.”

  “I don’t like that, either. But it’s not safe here, and until I’m sure it is, it’d be better if you were someplace else. You’ll be safe with Fiona and Marcus.”

  She thought about it. “I’d like to go to London. Or maybe Disney World?”